


Songs of the Heart

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Charlie Bradbury, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Charlie Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Destiel eventually maybe, Detective Dean, Detective Dean Winchester, Detective Fergus Crowley, F/F, F/M, Gen, Happy Sam, Implied Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, M/M, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Psychic Castiel, Sassy Crowley, Serial Killers, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Supportive Bobby, alternative universe, set in the uk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 35,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6783586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><p> </p><p>Detective Dean Winchester, on secondment to the Metropolitan Police, is investigating a particularly gruesome murder with his CID colleague Fergus Crowley.</p><p>His prime suspect, arrested in the bathroom of the victim's Knightsbridge apartment is a strange, but charismatic man, who claims to be a psychic.</p><p>Is everything as straightforward as it seems, or is his life about to get complicated?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fiddler on the Roof (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Special note of thanks to Hermit9 who is valiantly beta'ing for me.

The early spring sunlight flooded in through the floor to ceiling expanse of glass along the South wall of the penthouse apartment. It fell softly on furnishings, which were as exquisite and exclusive as the address. The overall ambience was clean, crisp, minimalist and clearly expensive, but it still looked far homelier and much more comfortable than the average designer abode.

The victim lay across one of the white leather chesterfields that surrounded a large simple marble fireplace. One long slender striped pyjama clad leg was hooked over the back, the other splayed over the arm. His torso was bare, his back arched over brightly coloured scatter cushions; arms twisted behind his back, presumably bound somehow judging by the awkward twist of his shoulders, the top of his head pressing into the floor, his hair dark with dried blood, scrunching into the deep pile of an expensive looking rug. His lips were parted, as if he were about to speak and the soft grey eyes which would never focus again, seemed to be gazing at the wall opposite. Maybe so that, even in death, he could appreciate the gaudy mess his blood had made as it sprayed across the crisp white surface.

The main attention grabbing and unusual feature was the gaping hole where his heart should be.

The forensic pathologist's assistant, Jen O’Brien, stood patiently to one side. She had drawn the short straw and was on call this weekend, they were short staffed at the best of times, so she often went with the crew in the van to retrieve the body. The Scene Of Crime Officers were all busy tagging and photographing the scene, the whine and click of their flashes and occasional comments to one another forming a sonic background, to the conversation of the two detectives, who were examining the body in situ.

In practice, she doubted it made much difference to their understanding of the case, but she knew better than to voice such an opinion. In her limited experience, the evidence, just like the devil, lay in the details, and those usually came out in the lab or the morgue, not by taking in the scene, raw in tooth and claw, but then she was a scientist and far more at home in the lab.

But the weekend had improved somewhat, when she realised it was Winchester’s rather beautiful physique squatting down and peering at the deceased. He looked completely at home in the glamorous surroundings of the Knightsbridge apartment. If it wasn’t for the blood and gore, he could be a male model in the middle of a photo shoot.

She could watch him all day and all night. He was pursing those rather sumptuous lips, the stunning moss green eyes taking a long hard look over the body. She subconsciously sucked in her lower lip, dropping her eyes and blushing when she realised that his tidy little partner was smirking at her. Crowley raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, clearly watching her with some amusement. Him, she scowled slightly, and his dapper dress sense, she could happily do without. Who the hell wore a carnation to a crime scene anyway!?  If she ended up with petals in the evidence samples, Jane Coleman would go spare.

“So what do we think, Scully? Werewolf or witchcraft?” he quipped, enjoying the flash of annoyance that Winchester accorded him. Yet another nickname to add to the myriad given to the American since he’d arrived from the states on secondment six months ago. It was all good-natured ‘banter’ apparently, and to be fair, he gave as good as he got sometimes.

Without turning his attention from the body, he growled back, “Ha ha. Why don’t you go make yourself useful and get some details on our vic.”

Crowley shrugged, made a pretense of a little bow and clicked his heels together, before skirting carefully round a pool of blood, on the parquet flooring. He made his way towards a couple of white clad SOCOs who were busy bagging and tagging what looked like an Aspinal’s messenger bag.

Dean shook his head slightly at being mocked, before he glanced up, stretching to his full height and nodding in the FPA's direction. “If SOCO have finished, he’s all yours, thank you for being so patient.” His soft American drawl and the consideration he routinely showed his British colleagues were two more things she liked about him.

 

Dean was sat in the car, one arm languidly resting along the open window, when Crowley finally re-joined him, sliding into the passenger seat with two coffees. “So,” Crowley passed over a coffee and pulled out his tablet. “Our victim is one Andrew Nicholls, known to one and all as Drew. Scottish! A quality man.” He ignored the American raising one eyebrow. “Caution for possession when he was a student, but no transgressions since. The rather sumptuous Knightsbridge apartment is his Pied-a-Terre, his wife lives out in Surrey, no children. He stays here when fulfilling his commitments with the Royal National Philharmonic. Mr Nicholls is, or should I say was, first violin. So if the man the plods finally discovered in the bathroom is second violin, I’d say we have our perp.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “So our suspect was sat in the bathroom.”

“Uhuh, apparently he just calmly flushed, washed up and handed himself over. His name, get this for a mouthful, is Castiel Novak, and oh bollocks, you’ll love this…”

“Don’t tell me, he’s American.”

“Oh you’re good, Winchester, you should be a detective, but that's not the adorable part. He claims to be a psychic. That’s spooky, do you think he pulled some mojo link on you already?”

His dismissive thoughts on psychics and other proponents of Woowoo and supernatural bullshit were well known.“You kill me, Crowley. I’m surprised I have any ribs left with the constant laugh riot.” Dean grimaced as he tasted his drink. “Does no-one in this damn country know how to make decent coffee.” He put the cardboard container into the cup holder beside the gear lever and pulled out into the heavy London traffic.

The man sat in Interview Room 2 was smartly, if a little cheaply dressed. He looked surprisingly uncrumpled considering he had spent the night in the cells. He wore a suit and was currently sans tie as per Met protocols.

Dean cast an eye over his property list. One blue tie, two black shoe laces, one leather belt, a wallet complete with a mixture of American dollars and sterling, an Oyster card, a Californian driving licence, one mobile phone (Dean would never get used to the British terminology, correcting it in his head to cellphone) and an American passport in the name of Castiel Novak. One note pad, one ball point pen. And one tan trench coat. Dude either thinks he’s Columbo or Constantine, Dean thought idly.

They watched him through the glass. He appeared unconcerned, sitting relaxed and calm, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, dark head slightly bowed. He suddenly lifted his head, turning it so smoothly towards the two-way mirror Dean was reminded of a fairground automaton.

For a split second Dean could have sworn the intense blue gaze was looking through the glass and right at him. He shrugged the fanciful sensation aside, “What do we know about this guy?” He sipped at another attempt at coffee, at least the stuff they served in the canteen had no pretentions, everyone thought it tasted like shit.

“What, besides being a fruit loop, who told the arresting officer that he should call his mother and tell her that Granny left her jewellery in the bottom of that biscuit tin she kept all the old buttons in?" Crowley chuckled at the evil look his colleague gave him.

"Seriously, he’s got no criminal record. The son of an American diplomat, both parents are dead, killed in a car crash just after he was born. Raised thereafter by various of his three older brothers. He’s clever, 99th percentile clever. Studied at Oxford, read military history, graduated with a first 15 years ago. He was a shoe-in for a post grad and a career in academia. Then, one year in, no explanation, he suddenly drops out and high tails it back to the States. Arrived in New York, 7 th September 2001, and then he just disappears off the radar, until two weeks ago, when he suddenly renews his passport and flies into Terminal 5. Sadly, though,” Crowley added with a sigh, “as far as I can tell he doesn’t even play the kazoo.”

 

\---------------------------

The twin tape decks revolved steadily as Dean started the interview by identifying himself and Crowley, before confirming that Mr Castiel Novak had waived his right to legal representation.

“So Mr Novak. What’s your connection with Mr Nicholls, and why were you in his apartment?” 

“I don’t have a connection to Mr Nicholls, I didn’t even know his name, until one of your officers asked me about him.”

“So what were you doing in his apartment?” Dean persisted calmly.

“I was trying to help him,” Novak growled. He sighed and ran his fingers through black unruly hair. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand, but I knew something was going to happen to him, and I wanted to warn him.”

“Humour me,” Dean said, lifting his chin in mild encouragement.

“Yeah,” Crowley drawled, earning him a mild scowl from his colleague, “humour him, he’s a very understanding guy.”

Novak looked at Crowley with something bordering on dislike and then closed his eyes briefly as he shifted his intensely blue gaze back to Dean. “I know things, they just sort of become … apparent, and I knew that Drew Nicholls was in danger. I wanted to try and prevent whatever was going to happen, but obviously, I was too late.”

“So you thought you’d trespass on a crime scene, and interfere with the evidence?" Crowley's eyes had developed a curious light.

Dean could sense the tension between them, even though he had not broken eye contact, with their detainee, who gave another little huff of frustration, rolling improbably white teeth over a chapped pink lip. “Obviously…” he said, shaking his head and making no discernible attempt to hide the irritation he was feeling, “…I didn’t know it was a crime scene, until I saw the body and I didn’t,” he used his fingers to make aggressive little air quotes, “‘interfere’ with anything.”

“That still doesn’t explain to us, what you were doing,” Crowley’s quietly reasonable voice rose in pitch to a near shout, “in the bathroom of a murder victim, while his corpse…” he turned to Dean and asked quietly, “what was the word the pathologist used again?"

Dean made a play of looking at the preliminary report, despite the fact that he knew the word very well, as did Crowley. “Exsanguinated.”

“Oh yeah…while his corpse exsanguinated itself all over a 15-foot expanse of recently whitewashed wall.”

Castiel Novak shrugged again. “When I walked in there, I realised I’d stood in the blood. I went into the bathroom to wash my shoe.”

“That’s a very reasonable explanation” Dean acknowledged, “extremely collected, bordering on sociopathic, considering quite how gruesome the scene was, but reasonable. It doesn’t explain, however, what you were doing in the apartment in the first place,” Dean held his gaze expectantly.

The eyes looking back at him were so bright and so… blue. “I knocked on the door, it swung open, I walked in…” Cas explained patiently.

“Did you know Mr Nicholls? Was he a friend of yours?” Crowley asked, as Dean leant back and observed Novak’s reactions. “Only, it seems a little impolite, just strolling into a complete stranger’s home, just because they left a door unlocked?”

“It wasn’t just unlocked, it was open and I already told you I knew he was in danger. I was trying to help him.” His jaw twitched slightly, but he took a deep breath and made a clearly conscious effort to relax.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re Mother fricking Teresa,” Crowley’s tone was at its most patronising.

“Actually,” Castiel said resignedly, “the jury’s out on whether she was actually as benevolent as the church made her out to be,” he picked at a piece of fluff on his suit jacket cuff, “not that that will stop the Roman Catholic church from sanctifying her.”

Dean suppressed a snicker. He liked Novak, he might be a ‘fruit loop’ as Crowley had put it, but he’d lay odds on him being no killer and, as an added bonus, he was annoying the shit out of Crowley.

"But, my intentions aside," Novak said calmly, his eyes wide and face expressionless. "I think the salient questions here are; if I had murdered this man and then patiently waited to be arrested coming out of his bathroom. Number 1 why aren't I covered in blood? And number 2, where the hell did I put his heart?"


	2. Fiddler on the Roof (Part 2)

“I’m just saying he had a point, he couldn’t have killed Drew Nicholls, the timeline is all wrong, if the neighbour is right about the time he arrived, he’s lucky he didn’t get himself killed. Pathologist puts T.O.D at between 7 and 8am. Novak was eating breakfast in front of dozens of other hotel guests. That scene is staged, how long would it take to cut someone’s heart out, and clean yourself up enough to leave in broad daylight? An hour? Two? The neighbour says she saw the …” he glanced at his notes “…handsome dark haired man come in at just after 9.20 – 9.30. He must have missed the killer by 20 minutes at most. It’s just annoying he didn’t see anything.” Dean placated Crowley, “you know I don’t buy this psychic bullshit, but he is a witness not a suspect.”

“He could still be an accomplice,” Crowley ventured half-heartedly, but even he didn’t really feel it. "I don't buy this Guardian Angel crap, either. No matter how much pretty boy stuck to his story." He walked out of the little partition office back into the main CID room where the rest of the team were working on the results of the door to doors and checking out the various leads that had come through so far.

It was all a moot point anyway, Dean thought, they’d had to either apply for an extension or let Novak go. Despite trying for another two hours to shake his story, he had remained stubbornly consistent.

His psychic abilities, he claimed, led to vivid dreams. He had been helping people for years. It always followed the same pattern. His dreams were vague at first, then gradually he pulled together the clues and the dreams became more coherent and then he just found he knew the answers without even asking the questions.  In this instance, about three weeks ago he had realised he needed to come to London to find the man in his latest set of dreams. A man who desperately needed his help and who would die if he didn’t get it.

Dean watched Crowley working his way around the team. He remained in the cubicle office and was, as was his habit, perched on the corner of the desk, one leg bent under, foot against the modesty board, the other braced on the floor. Crowley had more than once pointed out that they could always get him a higher chair. He had to grudgingly admit that he quite enjoyed the constant teasing. It was a little like his relationship with his brother and he missed Sammy, not that he would ever admit to Crowley that he liked his company.

The station was arranged in three blocks around a central courtyard car-park. In common with most of the partially pre-fabbed structures of the UK's 50's and 60's post war building boom, it was constructed of concrete and glass, with metal sash windows along both of the long sides of each block, internal partitions breaking the huge floor space into smaller offices and rooms. It was freezing in winter, but roasted its occupants alive on days when the sun shone. The British obsession with the weather became entirely understandable if you spent any amount of time here, it was utterly erratic. This CID office was on the fourth floor of the block directly opposite the low building that housed the reception.

He leant back and idly flicked the dusty Venetian blinds at the main office window apart, holding the slats open using thumb and forefinger, gazing across the car park towards the front entrance. A trench coated figure was tripping lightly down the stairs. Dean watched him make his way out onto the road, and he was about to go out of sight behind the high perimeter wall, when he paused, the unruly mop of dark hair clear even at this distance turning as he looked back at the building. The pale face turned towards this block, this window. Dean shrank back, heart pounding, the blind flicked back into position with a metallic twang and he cursed himself for being so impressionable. When he looked back, Castiel Novak was gone.

A young PC he recognised instantly as Jo Harvelle had entered the CID room, she walked hesitantly towards Dean, pulling her notepad from her belt. “The desk sergeant said I should bring you Mr Novak’s contact details.”

Dean smiled at her, she was bright, observant, going places. She’d already been useful to CID a couple of times, in the short amount of time he had known her. Looking at the jotter she noticed the name scribbled in Crowley's elegant hand and encouraged by his welcoming smile, she confided in him, “I interviewed her. The neighbour two floors down. The one who saw him coming into the block. Right bloody man-eater, he was lucky to get past her alive.”

“Just the job for Fergus, then,” Dean grinned and she laughed. Dean decided he might sit out this particular interview, his time better served talking to the widow instead.

 

 

She was admiring her new haircut when the doorbell rang. It had been expensive, but it hung so prettily, emphasising the elegant sweep of her neck and delicate jawline. The new colour had taken years off her. She picked up her brush and tweaked the heavy new fringe into shape, refixed her bright coral lipstick and adjusted her décolletage. The young uniformed constable had told her that the CID officers might want to take her statement themselves, and she was secretly hoping it would be the tall one with the slightly bow legged gait she had spied on in the hallway yesterday.

She opened the door, feeling that the rush of adrenalin she was experiencing would heighten the natural blush of her cheeks, and give her a bright eyed, interesting look. She managed to suppress the sigh of disappointment, when she saw the neatly dressed man at her door. Although there was something mildly attractive about him.

“Mrs Evans? Sarah Evans?” he asked politely, holding up his ID. “DS Crowley, Metropolitan Police.” His voice was definitely rather sexy.

Any port in a storm...although to be truthful, any oasis in a desert, was a more accurate analogy for her love-life. “Miss,” she corrected him, giving him her most alluring look. “Do come in Detective Sergeant.”

Crowley waited politely while she fetched him tea. Her flat was, as any good estate agent would describe it, well appointed, it was not however in the same league as the penthouse. It also suffered from the decorative approach of a middle-aged woman with a love of floral prints.

She placed a tray on the beautifully polished coffee table and perched opposite him on a slightly overstuffed, excessively chintzy chaise longue. He himself had plumped for an armchair. “If we could just go over the details you gave to the PC yesterday afternoon…”

“It’s come as such a terrible shock. I… you just don’t expect to have a neighbour murdered… not in Knightsbridge.”

Crowley, who had long since ceased to be surprised by the level of depravity and criminality in London, knew that expensive post-codes didn't protect you from crime, they just increased the stakes, but he nodded with false sympathy. “We have, of course, made sure that there is a greater than normal uniformed presence in the area. You really mustn’t worry Mrs.. erm Miss Evans.”

“Please, call me Sarah.” Was she fluttering her eyelashes at him, or had she got something in her eye?

She leant towards him, and Crowley was suddenly very grateful that he had chosen the arm chair, he had a feeling he’d have been fending her off with the sugar tongs if he’d chosen to sit on the chaise. He made a mental note to push Winchester under the next available bus. No wonder he had let Crowley take this one after his conflab with young Jo Harvelle.

“If,” he pulled out a statement pad and pen, “you could tell me about the events of yesterday…”

She sighed sharply.

“I was just on my way out to an appointment at around 9.30 when I saw the man at the front door.” The white lie would not hurt; she didn’t want to confess that it was because she had just finished watching an ITV breakfast interview with a reality TV star on Lorraine, before heading off shopping. He didn't need to know that this was the most excitement she had had in at least five years.

"He was so charming,” her face lit up at the memory, “such a nice looking man, smart. An expensive coat over a cheap suit, but such lovely eyes, and so polite." She hoped he would take the hint, that she rather admired old fashioned etiquette. "He walked back and held the door for me, you don’t see those kind of manners so often these days. I know you can’t tell me whether he’s a suspect, but there’s something else I must tell you, you see there was someone else here that morning.” Now she did have Crowley’s full attention. “I didn’t feel it was right to discuss with the young lady. I know they all think themselves worldly wise, but she was so young.”

Crowley tried to imagine the levels of debauchery you would have to reach to shock the young woman in question. He suspected he would blink first in that contest. He suppressed a chuckle, and his mouth twitched.

“I was just finishing my breakfast when I heard someone come rushing down the stairs. I knew it wasn’t Drew himself, the footsteps weren’t heavy enough. He’s been a most considerate neighbour really, and, I don’t wish to be indelicate, but it’s not unusual for him to have …callers,” she leant forward, her voice had dropped to an artful whisper, despite the fact that they were alone in her sitting room. “Especially when Andrea is out in the country.”

Crowley returned her gaze, keeping his own deliberately blank. “Andrea...his wife,” she added with emphasis.

“So you think it was a woman?”

“I couldn’t say, but not all… oh dear… this does not feel right, but this is a murder enquiry after all,” she imagined that the detective must be admiring her open-mindedness and compassion, “… his ‘callers’ weren’t always entirely or exclusively ladies, if you understand.”

Crowley hid his smirk at her ‘delicacy’ behind his tea cup. He took a sip, before returning the bone china cup to its saucer with a gentle clinking sound. “Lovely tea,” he commented, smiling. “Roundabout what time was this?”

“Just before 9. I heard the front door slam downstairs, just as the news bulletin started on Radio 4." News was news after all, and the ITV showbiz roundup started at 9, too.

 

 

Mrs Andrea Nicholls was calm, the only indication of distress, her slightly bloodshot eyes, and the redness of the end of her nose. She stared at the detective, waiting patiently for him to speak.

They had already covered quite a lot of ground. Her whereabouts at the time in question, her last visit to the penthouse, the last time she had seen and last spoken to her husband. The fact that they had an ‘open’ marriage, which in practice meant that Drew played the field in London, while she lived her quiet, comfortable life in Surrey, arranging the church flowers, partnering the local solicitor at bridge amongst other things and generally presenting an outwardly respectable façade to the neighbours in Godalming.

She didn’t know any of her husband’s dalliances by anything more than a first name, she had met a couple of them on trips to the capital, but she had no contact details. She did not recognise Castiel Novak’s description. Drew was very unlikely to have been involved in anything ‘supernatural’. He regarded mediums and psychics as total bunkum.

When Dean asked her if she knew anyone who might wish her husband harm, she had been disarmingly honest. “It could be any number of jilted lovers, cuckolded husbands, or, for that matter, wives. Drew was a player, Detective Winchester. In fact, if you’re looking for motive, you should probably turn your attention to me. His death saves me from living a lie, and spares me the cost of an expensive and messy divorce. But the truth is, Drew and I were happy together, in the sense that neither of us made demands on the other.”  She paused and became reflective, twisting the tissue around her elegant fingers.

“We were only students when we first met.  I sometimes think, it’s a terrible cliche, but I think he only had to have me because I was the one girl who said ‘no’.  His families wealth and influence were of no significance to me and I thought he was a total player.  It amused him at first to ‘slum it’ with the girl from a council estate. It annoyed his parents and scandalised their friends.”

“But Drew was no snob, he never made me feel like pygmalion, he could be so charming when he chose. I’ve never met anyone who made me feel like Drew did when we were first together, and now…I’m more interested in my amateur dramatics and community work. He loved me in his way.”

Her lip trembled and her voice cracked slightly and she dabbed her eyes with the now screwed up tissue. Dean reached for the box to offer her a fresh one. She gave him a weak little smile, and he gave her hand a gentle reassuring squeeze.

There was little more he could ask or tell her at this stage of the enquiry. He thanked her for coming up to town, the family liaison officer would be in touch shortly, but he gave her his card, in case anything else occurred to her. He added softly that they would get the flat turned over to her as soon as the last of the forensic tests were complete.

“I don’t think I shall bother going there again,” she said quietly, shaking his hand in farewell, “I’ll put it on the market, as soon as is humanly possible.”

 

 

They met to compare notes in the snug of the local bar. Strictly speaking it was heavily frowned upon to discuss cases in public, but the Snug had been an extension of the police station for so long, that no-one really regarded it as a public facility any longer.

Crowley supped at a pint. He was now off-duty and he gave a deep sigh of pleasure as the bitter hops mellowed over his tongue. Winchester pulled a face at the smell of the lukewarm beer, and attempted to enjoy a slightly flat draught of coke. He couldn’t face trying to get his caffeine fix with another abysmal excuse for coffee.

He glanced at Crowley, who was pushing his tongue into his cheek thoughtfully, watching him. “Well, I think we have a whole box-file of nada so far. All we seem to have done is eliminate all our most promising suspects, and we still don’t know what Novak’s connection with this case is really. Have you asked your gargantuan brother for his thoughts?”

“Officially, or unofficially?”

“Either,” Crowley said impatiently.

“It’s only been 48 hours, I usually give myself at least three days before I go running to my baby brother!” Dean glanced up under his brow, looking suddenly abashed. He paused, before confessing, “I did google him myself.”

“Oh, you googled him, that's what the kids are calling it these days," Crowley smirked into his beer.

Dean ignored his cheap jibe. “One mention, a case in New Hampshire. He’s not specifically named, but it sure as hell sounds like him.”

“How exactly did you google it, if he’s not named specifically?”

Dean blushed under his freckles, as Crowley tilted his head and scrutinised him more deeply.

“I googled his description…” Crowley was chuckling at him, “...bite me, asswipe.”

“Don’t tell me…psychic in a trench coat? Or good-looking, blue-eyed saviour? …you know you’re gonna have to share, or I’ll just get that red-head in IT to hack your computer.”

“It was a forum post about a dark-haired man with intense blue eyes, who seemed to know things without being told.” Dean pulled the post up on his phone.

Crowley read it with increasing amusement… _he saved my Bella, the new boyfriend was almost too good to be true, he was too good to be true, our guardian angel in his trench coat, he came to see me, warned me that Bells was in danger. Turns out the her new boyfriend had a string of battery offenses…he made me promise not to give his name out, but I wanted to share…_

“You googled angel in a trench coat?!” Crowley’s eyes were dancing with humour.

“No… aw…go to hell, Crowley, you son of a bitch.” Dean looked up, gulping a huge mouthful of coke, before grinning back ruefully.

They both laughed at his discomfort. “I’ll speak to Sam later, see if he can find out any more about this guy. There has to be some reason he turned up in our murder scene, and it will have nothing to do with divine intervention or psychic messages.”


	3. Fiddler on the Roof (Part 3)

Dean climbed wearily down the stairs to the rented cellar apartment, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to call home, pushed the front door shut with a sigh, and dropped his keys into the upturned hub cap he used as a dish on the hall stand. His precinct colleagues had given him the cap as a leaving present, along with a survival kit that had included a pair of stars and stripes shorts, a signed first edition of Bill Bryson’s Life on a Small Island and an American to English dictionary.

The hub cap had been Bobby Singer’s idea he was sure. He had been the steadfast presence in Dean's life for so long, that he could barely remember a time when he hadn't known him. And once he'd chosen his career it was Bobby that had become his boss, gradually shaping him from rookie to full blown detective. So it had to be Bobby who had known that the biggest wrench for Dean about going on this secondment, apart from being so far from his brother, was going to be leaving his beloved Impala behind.

Baby was covered with dust sheets and parked in Sam’s garage. Dean didn’t know it, but Sam religiously turned over the Impala’s engine every week and once a month drove her onto his driveway so that he and the kids could wash and polish her. The car had been their Dad’s, his car and his private journal, kept since the death of their mother, religiously recording his work and detailing the criminals he was tracking, were the only things he’d left his two sons, when he took a single gun shot wound to the chest and bled out slowly on the side of a Kentucky highway. Dean had the car and Sam had the journal. It had never occurred to either of them that it should be any different.

It was why Dean had become a detective, and why Sam was a lawyer, both of them driven to bring the closure to other people that they could never have for themselves, while his killer remained at large, the arrest warrant Marshall John Winchester had been chasing down still unserved.

He checked his phone; just gone midnight. Another hour or so, he would catch his brother just after work. He sighed again and headed for the little kitchenette, to get a beer from the refrigerator. He grabbed his laptop and powered it up on the counter, pulling one of the bar stools up to the breakfast bar.

He found a YouTube video of a BBC documentary about the Philharmonic. Drew Nicholls, vital and talented, mainly in the background, tuning up, and then playing. His blonde head flowing with the piece, his whole body an extension of his instrument. The documentary was the third in a series about the love of music. The team behind it had looked at musicians of every style. Dean eyed the list in the video queue at the side of the screen, eight in total a jazz ensemble, a young aspiring singer, the violinist with an orchestra, a cruise ship lounge singer, an old rock group, a brass band, a classical pianist/composer and a busker.

His attention was drawn back to the video, their victim was talking on camera, so he turned up the volume. “…practising was never a chore; it was all I ever wanted to do.”

The interviewer was off camera, and Drew’s face handsome and intelligent in life, filled the screen. “Can you remember what first drew you to the violin? What gave you that love of music?”

The cool grey eyes were suddenly lively, his face seemed to glow from within. “Oh I know the exact moment when I fell in love with the violin. I wasn’t very old, we’d been out somewhere, and my parents had put the television on to keep us amused while they cooked dinner. My sister and I were playing hangman, and there was suddenly this beautiful sound. She got really annoyed with me, because I didn’t want to play anymore, but it was instantaneous, my heart sang from the moment I first heard a violin, and I pestered my parents until they let me get lessons.”

“Well it certainly paid off, the orchestra…”

Dean left the video playing and scrolled down through the comments. RIP’s and messages of sympathy for his family and friends. One or two who claimed to be acquaintances or friends describing the loss. Dean made a mental note to check that the sister had been interviewed.  The CID team were busy working their way through his orchestral colleagues, anything interesting would be boosted up the food chain. The team was developing nicely, and he was beginning to trust their judgement in a way he had never quite done with the agents in the states.

He checked his e-mails, wondering whether Charlie and her team had got very far with Drew’s online accounts. Sure enough she had sent him an update, an hour ago. That girl needs to get out more, he thought, says me, checking my e-mails at 12.30 in the morning…

He opened Skype, it’s familiar bubble sound echoing from the tinny speaker over the continuing documentary. He paused the video, and smiled. His brother was apparently home already. He pinged the invite and waited for the call to accept.

“Dean,” his brother’s familiar goofy grin filled the screen, his long brown hair flopping forward over one eye. “Dude, you look tired. Why aren’t you in bed catching some z’s?”

“We caught a case. Kinda high profile.”

“Ah… so you pulling an all-nighter.”

“No, I’m home, just kinda hoping you’d do some background checks for me.”

Sam smiled. “Sure,” he said stretching out of sight briefly, the screen filling with a pile of fluffy pillows and the wood panel behind revealing itself to be a headboard.

“Dude are you in bed?” Dean asked suddenly realising that his brother appeared to be naked, at least from the waist up.

“Yes he is,” Jess’s muffled voice grumbled. “And some of us prefer to have a life and not work 24-7.” The image rocked slightly and she appeared in the screen beside her husband’s shoulder.”

“Looking good there, Jess. Beautiful as always.”

“Creep,” she said good-naturedly, I’m going to get the dinner on. Coffee honey?”

Sam mumbled his thanks, and the screen lurched again as she disappeared. Oh, Dean sighed, coffee… "I'm sorry Dude, I didn't mean to interrupt..."

“It's OK, believe it or not, if we were still... erm... let's just say I wouldn't have answered. The kids will be back from mini-league in around 20 anyway," Sam grinned again and asked, "What d’you need, bro?”

“Besides seeing you get a haircut?!” He laughed at the mild bitch face. God damn he missed his brat of a brother.

 

 

_ Her first awareness was of breathing and a steady heart-beat. She was curious, she couldn’t normally hear her own heart-beat. Was it hers? It sounded like the swooshing of a baby’s heart on an ultra-sound. She felt cold, her body was floating. Was she in water? No, she wasn’t wet, was she? She tried to move, but nothing responded. She couldn’t see, but when she tried to open her eyes nothing happened. She was still in the dark. _

_ The heart-beat was quickening, she realised. Like the dumb horror movie soundtrack she’d worked on to pay her way through her final year at Uni. A steady increase of pace, a crescendo of noise to heighten the viewers’ tension. Music by numbers, but oh God the pay had been good. Only people with a secondary income, or no need to eat and pay rent could afford ‘artistic integrity’. _

_ She experimented. She held her breath. That she could do. Think, she told herself angrily. Her head though, felt spongy, disconnected somehow. The heart-beat was fast, about 80 per minute she estimated. Her father had always called her ‘his little metronome’, because rhythm and timing was as natural and instinctive to her as breathing. The memory made her smile, only she couldn’t feel her face to know if it reached her mouth. _

_ She heard a sound close by. Another tempo, another breathing and the heart-beat accelerated. There was a clicking sound, and she was getting colder again, and the sound of the heart-beat began to slow as she tried to hang on to her thoughts. She should be panicking, but she couldn’t feel anything, not even panic, not even… _

 

 

The alarm jarred, agitating Dean’s ears and his brain from the deepest of sleeps to semi wakefulness. He reached for it, but missed and knocked his phone to the floor where it continued to ring, muffled by discarded clothes which lay on the floor by the side of his bed. He sighed and swung into a sitting position with his eyes still shut, stretching his fingers through his hair and then dragging heavy hands down over his face, scratching the sides of his nose with his forefingers and pinching his bristly chin with his right hand, fingers flexing on his cheek.

He needed to shave. He dragged his eyes open reluctantly and yawning stretched down to retrieve the phone, still insistently jangling to tell him it was 8 am. He flicked the screen and padded softly to the en-suite. He set the shower to stun, and stepped under the tepid flow, jerking his body awake. He’d given himself a lie in. Now he was going to have to gun it to get to work. He needed to be ready to brief the team with Crowley at 9.

 

 

It was 8.55 as he walked at pace along the tarmac pavement lined with plane trees which ran alongside the high perimeter wall of the station. He reached into his pocket for his fob, patting himself down with rising alarm until he realised it was still sitting in the hub cap on his hall stand, he cursed his own stupidity and reached for his phone, glancing down at it as he rounded the corner, intending to ring Crowley to send one of the team down to let him in, only to have it clatter to the ground and skitter away as he barrelled into someone walking the other way.

They both twisted from the impact and he had a passing impression of a blur of tan white and blue, as he instinctively grabbed at the other person in an attempt to stop them falling. He managed to grab an arm, but it was not enough to save the fall and as he steadied himself he realised he was gazing down at the upturned face of Castiel Novak.

The intense blue eyes gazed back at him from the passive face, which was not registering shock or surprise as he would expect from someone who had just been body checked to the ground by a 180lb human brick wall.

“Man, I…”

“S’OK. No harm done, to anything except my dignity.” He closed his hand around Dean’s bicep and tensed his arm, as the Detective straightened, pulling him to his feet. He dusted himself down.

“I guess you didn’t see that coming,” Dean joked, suddenly feeling awkward in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something about the passive, knowing way that this man carried himself or maybe his sense of tranquility or those damned eyes, looking at him from under slightly arched eyebrows. For a fleeting second they danced with amusement, before the steady, inscrutable gaze returned.

“I guess I didn’t.” He moved forward and pushed past Dean stooping down and retrieving the phone from where it had ceased spinning on the ground. “Hm, it looks as though this too survived unscathed,” he said cleaning it on his sleeve. “I asked for you at the front desk. I have some information. Your colleague,” from the dismissive tone, Dean somehow knew he was referring to Crowley, “told me you were in a meeting and would call me back later.”

Meeting! Damn, he was late. “Erm, I should be, we brief at 9. That’s why I was… that’s why I…”

“…flattened me?” Again, the voice was so deadpan, it was only the faintest of crinkles around the eyes that gave away the humour behind the comment.

The phone in his outstretched hand began to vibrate, organ music emitting from its speakers. Dean grabbed it quickly swiping it up to his ear. “Yup, Crowley, I’m in the… ah, OK…I’ve left my fob...” he paused listening and looked up across the courtyard, to where Crowley stood just outside the staff entrance.

He turned back to Novak, who was already turning to go. “I know,” the gravelly voice was irritatingly smug, “you’ll talk to me after the briefing. I’ll wait for your call.”

Dean moved quickly, Crowley was already pulling an impatient face, he jogged towards him.

“Really?” Crowley said as he got closer, “Ozzy Ozbourne? You use Ozzy Ozbourne as my ring tone!” Could you be any more unoriginal?

Dean shrugged, the grin only spreading across his face as Crowley turned his back and began climbing the stairs.

 

 

Drew Nicholls body looked exceedingly pale in the autopsy photos, now that the pooled blood had been washed from his skin. The blonde hair increased the impression of a pastel palette, in stark comparison to the gory vivid colours of the actual crime scene images.

The forensic pathologist, Jane Coleman and lead SOCO, Steve Groves had arrived shortly after the briefing. Dean glanced at the clock, acutely aware that it was nearly two hours since he had crashed Castiel Novak onto the ground. He would just have to wait, this meeting was throwing up some interesting discussions.

Jane liked Winchester, he was clever, he had sharp eyes and an equally sharp mind, she was also well aware that her assistant would ‘jump his bones’ given half the chance. Crowley had a policeman’s instincts, making working with them both comfortable and easy. Groves was a sarcy bastard and the less than subtle bantering, all without the usual rancour and testosterone fuelled territorialism that was common between the different departments made for some entertaining conversations. She smiled to herself and relaxed back in her chair, happy for them to take the lead. The SOCO was pushing the image of the white washed wall forward into the centre of the table.

“It was freshly painted. A 15ft section of wall, painted brilliant white, there’s slight spotting on the furniture and the floor, and the wall was only just dry in places. So either Drew Nicholls was murdered during an early morning decorating session, or our killer wanted that wall white.”

The two detectives exchanged looks. “Painting a wall to cover up the blood, I could understand,” Crowley mused, “but this, it’s like he was giving himself a…”

“…canvas.” Dean finished, nodding in agreement. “Why?”

Groves was also nodding his balding head. “Notice anything else?” he asked, brown eyes flitting between his three colleagues.

Dean turned the picture, using one delicately extended finger, his hand elegant and poised, sliding it across the table. He hadn’t picked up on it at the scene, but there was something odd about the blood splatter. It was in rough stripes, there was a vague pattern to the droplets.

Crowley beat him to it, “Knife strikes? Repeated swings of the arm throwing it back in stripes along the wall?”

Jane Coleman shook her head and interjected, “they’re horizontal,” a puzzled crinkle formed between her eyebrows, “ and too regular, with those wide gaps in between.”

Steve Groves smiled at them all, his intense face brightening, “Uhuh, discharge from a blade or a weapon was my first thought too, but it’s more curious than that. I can’t claim the credit it was one of the team who saw it first.”

“Saw what?” Dean could sense the impatience in Crowley’s voice.

“Not all the droplets are splatter marks,” he grinned. They all stared at him. “Some of them have very carefully, very definitely and very deliberately been painted with an extremely fine brush.”

He pulled up a carefully magnified image on his tablet, and showed them the comparison. “Not all of them, just in places. See the difference.”

“So what the hell does that mean?” Crowley growled.

“That,” the SOCO shrugged calmly, “is the million pound question.”


	4. Fiddler on the Roof (Part 4)

Dean rubbed his eyes, he and Crowley had spent two hours now staring at the blood spatter, connecting the dots, looking at Morse code, they’d briefly become very excited when one of the team suggested computer codes or QR’s, but the pattern seemed to be frustratingly elusive four solid stripes of dots. They had tried squinting, looked for figures and shapes, all so far to no avail. He had been vaguely aware for at least the last half hour that his stomach was growling.

He glanced at his phone, feeling a little guilty, before mentally shaking himself, he was a lead detective and Castiel Novak had been in custody until yesterday as a suspect in a murder case. He owed him nothing, after all, but he was intrigued by the man.

“What?” he snapped, suddenly becoming aware that Crowley was scrutinising his face with an odd little smirk twisting his bearded little face.

“Oh, nothing,” Crowley said, widening his eyes in faux innocence. Dean struggled with the overwhelming urge to knock him on his smug well-dressed ass. Still smirking, Crowley gave a deep sigh, signalling that he too had reached the limit of time he was prepared to stare at the images.

“Right, that’s it, I’m hitting the canteen. You coming?”

“I may be hungry, but I don’t think my stomach will forgive me if I eat anything from that goddamned canteen,” Dean muttered.

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Yeah, of course that’s the reason. For goodness sake, stop gazing at your phone and go ring your new blue eyed boy.” Dean narrowed his eyes at his colleague, who chuckled deeply. “What’s his ring-tone? Limp Bizkit? Or did you go for the original by The Who.”

“You’re an asshole, Crowley.” His only response was seeing the smirk widen into a brief genuinely affectionate grin, only ruined by a rather lewd wink, as the dapper little detective removed himself from the CID office and headed down the corridor.

Dean reached for his phone and shuffled through the papers on his desk, looking for Jo Harvelle’s note of the contact details. He dialed, using his mobile, considering only briefly whether to block his own number on the dial out, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter if he gave Novak his number.

It rang only twice before it was answered. “Hello Detective.”

There was a lengthy pause until Dean, slightly unnerved by the confidence that it would be him on the phone, mentally kicked himself into action. “You had some information for me?”

“I think this would be better explained in person.” The voice sounded even more gravelly over the crackling phone line. “Would it be inappropriate to suggest lunch?” He did not wait for an answer. “I could meet you in Fielding Square gardens if you are available now.”

 

 

It was a pleasant afternoon, the May sun was warm, but the air was crisp and devoid of the humidity that often accompanied warm weather in the capital. Dean took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, as he strolled out across the courtyard towards the road. The gardens lay in the centre of the neighbouring square; it was strictly speaking open only to residents, but Dean had already decided that if need be he would simply flash his warrant card. 

 

 

He spotted Novak straight away as he walked through the wrought iron gates, and ducked under a low hanging bow of cherry blossom. Castiel was sat on a bench, head back, relaxed in the sunshine. Dean approached quietly, but still the dark head turned towards him with that same unnerving smoothness of movement.

Dean dropped his jacket over the back of the bench and sat, the heat of the wood, striking up through his trousers. Castiel was reaching into a large bag beside him and passed the surprised Detective a large flask cup.

“I assumed you would take it black,” the gravelly voice was pleasant and light. Those penetrating eyes focused on his face, as if reading his reaction. Seemingly satisfied, Castiel’s mouth twitched slightly, before he turned away again, and began rustling through the bag.

Dean stared at the flask cup in his hand dumbfounded. The aroma was amazing. He stared at Castiel, who gazed back, unblinking and impassive as ever, holding out a small tightly wrapped package. He must be some kind of magician. The coffee smelt perfect. Dean lifted the flask to his lip, almost afraid to taste it, in case it was not the ambrosia it promised to be. He closed his eyes as it rolled across his tongue, bitter and smooth and utterly glorious. He swallowed and took another mouthful, savouring it for just another moment, before pulling himself reluctantly back to reality.

Castiel was watching him, amused, the now becoming familiar almost imperceptible crinkle around his eyes. He offered the package again. Dean reluctantly set the coffee down on the bench and took it, opening the greaseproof paper to reveal a soft bun, with a tantalising glimpse of cheese, hanging from one cut edge.

He began to wonder who Novak had been talking to, it was not beyond the realms of possibility that he had been in touch with one of his American colleagues he supposed. Unlikely, but still possible. How else would he get lunch so spectacularly right?

Shrugging, Castiel reached into the bag and drew out his own sandwich. “PB and jelly,” he said conversationally, “I’ve loved them when I was a child.” He waved the soft white bread in his hand to illustrate the point. “My brother Gabe made them for me. Much to Raphael’s disgust. He and Michael were rather strict, Gabe was much more fun, but sadly he found it rather difficult to stand up to them. I suspect my life would have been rather different if he had. Or indeed if my parents had not been taken from us.”

Dean took a bite of the burger. It was delicious, utterly perfect. He chewed it slowly in a slight state of awe, perfectly content to just listen while he still had this and his coffee.

“My brothers all tried in their way,” Castiel continued, “but we were… or are… rather a dysfunctional family. Gabe escaped, but that left me without an ally. I will never be as close to any of them as I would like. Michael and Raphael because they were too authoritarian, and Gabe, because it felt like he abandoned me. I’ve forgiven them all, but I can never forget, you can’t undo the damage that is done to you as a child. It did, however, and this is why I am explaining this to you, make it much easier for me to just walk away from my family when circumstances demanded it.”

“I know you think that my ‘gift’ is ridiculous and unscientific. I wholeheartedly agree with you. I can’t explain it, and it may be that I am just exceptionally perceptive, now, or that I am good at making educated guesses. But you need to understand, I was not a socially adept child. If anything I was socially awkward, I still am. I don’t know how I know things. I was being totally truthful that it starts as vague dreams, but then it becomes more than that.  Things just become apparent to me or I find I just know them. I’m truly sorry that it freaks you out, to be honest, I find it fairly freakish myself.”

He had not once taken his eyes from Dean as he spoke, watching for every twitch or reaction to what he was saying.

“Hey,” Dean said, through a mouthful of cheeseburger, “if it means you can second guess my lunch requirements this well, I’m willing to go with it.”

“I’m going to tell you something,  I don’t normally feel comfortable sharing, but I think you will understand,” Castiel said finally looking away into the middle distance, his eyes focusing somewhere amongst the cherry blossoms. “I find it utterly terrifying. I have spent a lot of the last decade and a half wishing to the hell that I could just switch it off, but I can’t. I hid from my family after New York. I hid from the world, but ultimately I still know, and not doing anything… but you know this, this drives you too, doing nothing… it just isn’t an option, is it?”

Castiel took a mouthful of his own sandwich and they both ate in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional rustle of greaseproof paper, or the ambient noises of a warm spring afternoon in the gardens. The distant hum of traffic that was always audible in London, barely noticeable here.

Finally, rolling the paper into a neat little ball, and giving a satisfied little belch, Dean looked back at the charismatic, enigmatic man who had made the coffee of his dreams.

“No,” he acknowledged quietly, “doing nothing is never an option.” He sighed. “How much do you know about why I’m here?”

“Enough. I don’t know any details, but I can sense that you are trying to make up for something. I know you blame yourself for something, and that whatever it was that happened, I suspect that no one else holds you responsible. I know that you miss your family, and that this… exile… is your way of punishing yourself. And I’m guessing that ‘Crowley’ is your own version of a hair vest.”

Dean chuckled at the characterisation of his irritating, acerbic partner, despite feeling tender at the accuracy of the sketch of his own position. He was good at seeing through lies and either Novak was an extremely skilled liar, or he truly believed what he was saying. He couldn’t explain why, but he had to admit, he not only liked him, he trusted him. Perhaps that was why he was so good at the ‘psychic’ shtick.

“They’ve taken someone else,” Novak said, so softly that Dean barely heard him. He turned his head to look directly into Dean’s face. The blue eyes were earnest, and the face looked deeply troubled.

“That’s why I have to convince you to believe me. They have taken someone else, and she is going to die just like Drew Nicholls did.”


	5. Broken Strings (Part 1)

“So what did our cherubic little Columbo want to impart?” Crowley asked as he leant against the door jam.

Dean did not look up, his eyes were fixed on the computer screen as he went through the crime scene photos and reports yet again, looking for some new angle. He had re-read the interview notes so many times, he could almost hear the conversations in his head.

“He believes we have potential serial killers on our hands.”

“Hm,” he could hear Crowley’s expression, he did not need to look up to see the sarcastic little smile, or the look of derision. “Did he dream it, or did he use his crystal balls?” He laughed at the glower that Dean threw at him from under his brow.

He walked into the room and grabbed at a file, absently flicking through it as he dropped down onto one of the tub chairs he and Dean had ‘appropriated’ from the rec room, so that they could sit and mull things over in relative comfort. The office had swiftly become a room for conferences and chats under their combined leadership, neither of them really favouring a strict hierarchy, although Crowley certainly had a knack for stamping his authority down with the rest of the team when he felt like it.

The autopsy report was simple. Drew Nicholls had died as a direct result of blood loss. The heart removed after the majority of the blood had been already drained, proven by limited bruising/bleeding around the incision marks. From the way his other organs had shut down, this blood loss had taken several hours, but other than the missing heart, which had been removed with some precision using a scalpel or similar tool, there were no other deep blood-letting wounds.

His wrists had been bound with cable ties, substantial bruising indicating that he had struggled to free himself at some point, and his arm showed signs of needle marks, all estimated to be fresh. He was in good health and relatively fit, apart from candidiasis, which was hardly surprising given his levels of sexual activity. Toxicology was still under process.

Sighing and putting the file to one side, Crowley said, “I’ve ordered some A0 size high def images of the blood spatter. I figured we were all gonna go blind staring at it on tiny screens. SOCO are working on isolating out the painted blips to see if it makes a difference.”

It was good thinking, on both counts, Dean acknowledged as much by nodding his head. “Our killer wanted a 15 foot canvas, maybe we need the bigger picture, too.”

 

 

_ The smell of fresh paint filled the air, the steady swish of the roller, providing a cross rhythm to the smooth palpating base beat of the heart monitor. The only wall large enough in her little studio apartment was painted a deep blood red, and it was taking a frustrating number of coats to cover it sufficiently. The violinist’s minimalist walls had only needed a quick freshen up. It was taking too many layers of paint to provide enough cover here. _

_ This had led to the near miss. The sudden change in heart rate, had been the clue, the monitor proving doubly useful, but a slight upping of the dose and she was under again now. Her beautiful blonde hair fanned out across the pillows. It was better using the drip, rather than giving clumsy injections, just one small puncture wound now and not so awkward. She had been so easy to roofy, responding to the flattery so easily and accepting the drink without question. So innocent and sweet. _

_ With him the ease of the seduction had been so flattering, but then those who aren’t at all choosy are easy to seduce. Then back at his flat, when he had begun to realise that this was not mere playful bondage, he had fought too much, and left stark harsh discolouration on the elegant hands, otherwise only marked with callouses from using a bow and plucking at strings. No need for the cable ties here, the soft pale skin of her slender wrists unblemished, elegant long fingers and neat, neat little pink and white nails. _

_ Drew Nicholls must be regarded as an experiment. Accepted, like all the other mistakes, as a minor setback and not a tragedy. It had not been right, but it was important not to get disheartened, these things took practice, the whole mess had been deeply unsatisfying, and just wrong, but this time…this time would be better…this time there would be no need to extrapolate. _


	6. Broken Strings (Part 2)

**The sunlight was strobing through the trees alongside the road, as he let his wrist flip lazily in the air flowing through his fingers outside the car window, his other hand resting lightly on the wheel, as the Impala ate the tarmac.**

**“So, where exactly are we heading?”  Benny was riding shotgun, his T-shirt sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, check shirt discarded on the seat between them.  The morning was heavy with the vaguely oppressive heat of an impending storm, despite the early hour. The smell of static building in the atmosphere.**

**“Rapid City.”  He glanced across at Benny’s relaxed if puzzled face.  “We’re going to Philly Ted’s.”**

**Benny laughed. “You’re driving us four hours clear across the state for a burger!”**

**“No my friend, I’m driving us four hours down the interstate for a Philly Cheesesteak and the finest coffee in Dakota.”  Dean smiled, grabbing a cassette and slotting it into the deck, turning the volume up to let the sound of George Thorogood fill the air.**

**Benny shook his head, and gazed out of the passenger window.  “Laissez les bon temps roulez, Brother, you are ten kinds of crazy.”**

 

 

Dean woke with a start as his phone vibrated on the bedside table, belting out Black Sabbath. He groaned and rolled over. “Crowley?” he croaked, coughing and swallowing to lubricate his throat.

“Morning, sunshine,” Crowley said drily. “We got another one. I’ll drive by en-route to pick you up. Be with you in 20 minutes.”

“’’K.” He wiped a weary hand over his face and glanced at the clock on his bedside. 8.00 am. So much for his Saturday morning lie-in. He threw back the covers and plodded to the bathroom, to grab a quick shower.

 

 

Dean eyed the proffered take-away cup with suspicion, as he climbed into Crowley’s car. His face distorting into a moue of disgust as he sniffed the contents. “Tea?!”

“Well, you bitch so much about the coffee, I thought I’d try to educate you in the art of being British. We don’t whine about bad coffee, we just drink something else.” He chuckled at the consternation on his colleague’s face.

The redbrick terraced house, was a contrast to the smart Knightsbridge address where Drew Nicholls had been found. The London street seemed to be full of emergency vehicles. The coroner’s ambulance was parked partially blocking the street, and a line of cars stretched into the distance in either direction on both sides of the road, parked in front of smart Victorian terraces.

Dean stepped out of Crowley’s car, carefully avoiding a puddle adjacent to the kerb. A deep pothole, the early morning sunshine glinted off the surface of the water and picked out the smooth rounds of the original cobbles, that lay beneath the tarmac.

He stepped away from the car and glanced up at the windows of the house. He could see the flashes of light through a first floor sash. It looked like an internal thunderstorm was trying to escape through the glass. He strolled towards the garden gate, hedged by privet, the garden was heavily overgrown. Ignoring the row of gawping sight-seers who ranged along the police tape in the street, eager to see something exciting, he nodded to Jo Harvelle who was stood at the tape, quietly, but effectively, rebuffing reporters and public alike.

He heard the blip as Crowley locked his Honda and waited for Crowley to join him on the path, holding the sprung gate back to give him access. It crashed back into place as he let it go. They crossed the threshold and Dean automatically began to sniff, the odour of a long dead body hit him like a wall, along with the more pungent and acidic smell of vomit and, he sniffed once more, before promising himself to resist the urge to use his nose again, urine.

“Jesus,” Crowley remarked, “something tells me this one ain’t fresh!”

They exchanged a quick glance and headed up bare wooden stairs, the rickety white painted banister creaking slightly as they climbed, side stepping a wet patch which had trickled down from top to bottom. The odour of vomit was stronger still on the landing, and Dean swallowed back the natural inclination of a human being to join the party. He looked at Crowley, but his face remained impassive, giving no hint of how grossed out he might be.

Jane Coleman was already on scene, orchestrating the preservation of evidence prior to the removal of the body. She paused and glanced up from her position squatting beside the heavily decomposed body, which lay on a deeply stained rug on the floor beside the benched out bay window. One wall was partially covered by an old mahogany wardrobe, the matching dressing table alongside it. An old iron bedstead, stripped to the mattress, jutted into the room from the far wall. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling. The other wall opposite the wardrobe had been painted white, a roller and tray were discarded haphazardly just inside the door.

Crowley pulled an immaculate cotton handkerchief from his upper pocket and put it over his mouth, and Jane gave him a subtle nod. She caught Dean's eye and rolled her own in the direction of one of the Detective team. Dean followed her gaze and looked straight into the wide panicked eyes of Detective Constable Fitzgerald. He nodded his dismissal and the DC darted from the room. The additional contamination of a second-hand canteen breakfast was the last thing needed here.

Dean swallowed again feeling his mouth fill with watery saliva, he had seen his fair share of bodies, fresh and not so fresh, but this one was particularly gooey, and the addition overpowering pong of other bodily fluids was not helping.

“Landlord,” Coleman said, by way of explanation. “Came in to check on his tenant for some reason, and managed to simultaneously throw up and piss himself when he opened the bedroom door and saw this.” She waved a hand over the corpse as if she was unveiling a work of art. “His own fault,” she muttered unsympathetically, “the smell should have made it obvious what he was going to find, better to just shut the front door and dial 999, instead of contaminating our crime scene.”

“Where is he now?” Crowley asked through his hanky.

“Outside somewhere with one of the PC’s,” she answered vaguely, turning her attention back to her own charge. Her focus as ever on the dead, not the living. She straightened up to a standing position, and pulled off her gloves with a subtle snap.

“All I can tell you so far is that judging by the decomp we’re looking at anything between 4 – 6 weeks.”

Dean pursed his lips, deep in thought. He shifted his gaze to the single white wall. It was the cleanest looking thing in the entire room, the pattern of droplets up the wall was diagonal. The body was face down, clad in what looked like a pair of ‘trackies’ and nothing else. The bare toes looked like two pods of shrivelled beans, alongside the wrinkled skin of the soles of the feet. He swallowed heavily again, and deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, nodded to the FP and went outside to find his young DC.

 

Garth Fitzgerald was stood behind one of the SOCO vans, one hand flexed against the smooth white paintwork of the vehicle, the other on his hip. He spat bile from his mouth, having long since dispensed with his breakfast. He would never get used to this part of the job, he thought. He joined in with the black humour, and the banter, but ultimately, when faced with death, raw and smelly and viscous, he felt he would always be stood heaving over a gutter.

He was desperate to prove himself, his feelings towards Dean Winchester almost amounting to a sort of celebrity crush. He wanted more than anything to impress the American. He was everything Garth wanted to be. And now, instead of making a good impression, he was outside the crime scene chucking his boots up, just out of sight of the public. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and waited for the cramping heaves to stop so he could straighten up and return to work.

He turned as someone thrust a bottle of water into his hand. Muttering his thanks, he looked up, straight into a pair of mildly amused green eyes.

“Sorry, sir…”

Dean waved his hand dismissively. “Feel ready to fill me in?”

Garth swilled his mouth and spat the water into the drain, before taking a quick slug. His stomach snarled at the intrusion of the cold fluid. He pulled out his notepad and began reciting the facts he had so far acquired. “If it is the tenant, his name is Paul Marsh, 64 years old, widowed this year, no known next of kin. The landlord was due for a routine six-month inspection, and had been trying to get hold of Mr Marsh by phone for nearly three weeks. He called round this morning, expecting to catch Marsh at home by coming early on Saturday.”

_“They've taken someone else, and she is going to die just like Drew Nicholls did.” The gravelly voice echoed through Dean’s mind. So much for psychic prediction._ Dean realised Garth was still talking. “…quiet man, who kept himself to himself. The neighbours don’t really remember seeing him for the last month or so, but that’s not unusual apparently. He got his groceries delivered each week, they barely ever saw him. We’ve set the uniforms on door to door, but with such a vague TOD it’s going to be a needle in a haystack finding anything useful.”

Dean nodded slowly, and patted Garth’s shoulder. “It took me five years to get past puking.”

His phone rang and he turned away to look at the screen, unaware of DC Fitzgerald’s beatific smile. Novak. He paused finger hovering over the red decline, before accepting the call with a sigh.

“It's not the same.” The voice at the other end of the line had the same calm conversational tone, as it had when he had been explaining his choice of sandwich. “This isn’t them.”

“This?” Dean queried, lifting his head and looking about him. “You’re here?”

“At the cordon.” Dean shifted his gaze to the end of the street, and sure enough, he made out the dark haired figure, clad in the same tan coat, stood slightly back from the crowd, but unmistakeable.

“How…?” the question stalled on his lips. “Never mind. You shouldn’t be here.”

He watched as Castiel shrugged. “I’ll be in the garden square at lunchtime.” It was an invitation.

To his own surprise Dean heard himself respond. “I’ll see you then.” He watched as Castiel’s arm dropped, disconnecting the call. He realised that Garth was looking at him quizzically, awaiting instruction. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“I’m leaving you in charge of the scene Garth, make sure you either get a full statement from the landlord, or book him in at the station to be interviewed if you think he’s not yet in a fit state to be questioned here. Report in this afternoon and ring if there’s anything of real significance.”

Fitzgerald was already turning away and striding with newfound confidence and purpose along the pavement. Dean smiled, he had the makings of a good detective, he was a little goofy and wore his heart on his sleeve like a pulsating badge of sincerity, but the kid was all right.

He shrugged and headed back towards Crowley’s car, knowing without even needing to check that he would be sat impatiently at the wheel.


	7. Broken Strings (Part 3)

The look of wry amusement in the lively blue eyes was not lost on Dean as he savoured the aroma floating from the cup flask. Castiel Novak certainly had his measure, and he found that he actually didn’t mind. In fact, he realised he had been looking forward to lunch all morning, and it was no use lying to himself and pretending it was just the prospect of a decent Philly cheese steak sandwich and damned near perfect coffee.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the peaceful ambient combination of birdsong and insect hum. It was only slightly cooler today, the overnight rain had freshened the air, but the sun was shining strongly and he lifted his face towards it instinctively, his vision turning red as it shone through his eyelids. He sighed feeling himself relax.

Novak had been patiently waiting for him on the same bench, the lunch set beside him. Dean had felt himself smiling as he approached. Jesus, he needed to get a grip, but there was something comfortable and easy between them that he just could not explain.

“It’s not them, the body in Bannerman Road, they didn’t do that.”

Reluctantly he opened his eyes, glancing sideways at Novak, his heart catching as he realised that Castiel had been watching him the whole time.

“This time they’ve taken a woman, well more of a girl, young, pretty. You have to…”

“I have to what, Castiel?! Start a search party? Pull the investigation? Go back and tell everyone my psychic stalker ‘knows’ the next victim is female so we need to stop investigating? … Let’s say I believe you…” He was surprised by the look of hurt on the earnest face, and the sudden flush of heat it caused in his own cheeks. He swallowed and continued more softly, “they’d fly me back to the States in a heartbeat, Cas.”

The dark head snapped up and he found himself pierced by that intense blue gaze. “That’s if they didn’t Cuckoo Nest my ass, before either of us had chance to blink.”

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, looking across the garden with an expression that Dean found unreadable. The detective followed his gaze. A small framed, older man in a peaked cap and a jacket with some intensely shined buttons was walking purposefully across the grass towards them. The warden, Dean guessed, dusting his hands, he prepared to stand and reach for his warrant card to excuse their presence in the private access garden, but the approaching man was smiling broadly, his full attention on Novak.

“I didn’t believe it when my Margie told me,” the old man gushed as he came within earshot. “I was convinced she must be wrong.” Dean noticed that the dark-haired man beside him was blushing. It was strangely endearing to see the softy tanned cheeks flushed with high points of scarlet and the normally passive face looking so bashful. “I told her it couldn’t be you, and yet, as I live and breathe, here you are, larger than life.”

“Hello, Mr Parker. It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Sir! Sir? After all this time. You call me George.” He had seized a tan sleeved arm and was pumping it enthusiastically, patting the elbow with his spare hand. “Forgive me, I’m interrupting you and your friend, but I just wanted to see for myself. I will leave you in peace, but I had to be sure that it was really you, Castiel. I’ve never been so pleased to be wrong in all my life. You will come and have tea with me, while you’re here. Are you staying at the old house?”

Novak nodded, still blushing furiously. “I will I promise, Mr Parker, I would have come sooner, but…”

The older man waved a hand dismissively. “You come when you have time, Castiel, my boy. I’m just pleased to see you.” He retreated as purposefully as he had arrived, heading back across the garden, shaking his head, and muttering to himself as he walked.

Dean looked at Castiel, eyebrows raised. He pulled his notebook from his pocket. He had slipped the piece of paper on which Jo Harvelle had scrawled the mobile number into his book. He turned it over. Sure enough on the reverse of the scrawled telephone number was an address. An address here on the square. Some detective I am, he thought ruefully. But if he had a house in London why the hell had he been staying in a flea pit hotel on the edge of a red-light district.

“My mother’s London home. I didn’t want to come here, but I was just hiding from my memories,” Castiel explained, as ever accurately and unnervingly answering a question which had not been asked aloud. “It belonged to my mother’s family. Raphael sent me here during school vacations, thinking it would punish me for my incorrigibility. In reality... the Parkers, well, they are the only people who ever made me feel wanted. It wasn't until I started at Oxford that I found out that the house was mine. My mother left it to me, along with enough stocks and shares to provide a modest income. I was happy here, before this 'gift'. I knew coming here would bring it all back. It's painful to me to remember those carefree times and I find it difficult to feel close to people at the best of times. I don't like the sense of vulnerability.”

Dean was flustered. He hid his own feelings so deep, Castiel’s open, simple statements threw him miles outside his own comfort zone, especially when the echoes and reflections of his own psyche were so clear. He was saved by Crowley, his phone suddenly belting out his ringtone.

“I have to take this…” he began awkwardly.

“It’s OK,” Castiel nodded. “I should go, please take your lunch, enjoy. I can get the flask back next time.” He stood and with a curious little nod, he turned and walked away.

Dean swiped his phone and answered the call and Crowley was halfway through his first sentence before he clocked it... 'next time'... there would be a next time of course there would.

"...are you listening to me, Winchester," Crowley's exasperated voice cut through his thought process. "We have a case conference in an hour, but it looks as though our rotter is unconnected. Preliminary autopsy report shows no exsanguination, no removal of the heart. The landlord reports that the place was pretty grubby at the last inspection, he'd offered to have it redecorated but the old man wanted to do it himself, keep himself busy now that his wife was gone. SOCO says the stain on the wall is coming through from under the paint, not the result of blood spatter over the top. It all suggests no connection to Drew Nicholls. Looks like your angel was off with his predictions and serial killer malarkey."

"On the contrary," Dean mused, ruefully, choosing to ignore Crowley's little jibe, "he was bang on the money about Bannerman Road, I just hope to fuck he's wrong about everything else..."


	8. Broken Strings (Part 4)

At 6 foot 5, Sam Winchester was quite a tall guy, yet somehow he managed to be completely approachable. He was deeply intelligent, resourceful and well on his way to being a partner at his law firm. He was also, unusually for a lawyer, not a total dick. For this reason, and many others, Bobby Singer was quite proud of the younger Winchester.

He had known John Winchester for years, their paths crossing as police officer and marshal. An obsessive, tough man, broken by the death of his wife, struggling to raise two boys alone, on the road a lot, and sometimes forgetting he was in charge of two children and not two marine cadets. They had exchanged more than a few choice words, Bobby and John. Bobby was not one to shirk on tough love, but it was love… and John had sometimes forgotten the need to show it, and by God, these boys, correction, men were worthy of being loved.

Bobby’s friend Sheriff Jodi Mills had supported the then 18 year old Dean’s application to look after his brother when John was found dead. Made sure the boys were safe and had a stable situation in Sioux Falls, where Bobby and she could keep a weather eye on them. It was too late for Dean’s education, but he had graduated and made a good living as a mechanic, working hard to give Sam every opportunity and the gawky, anxious teenager, given a stable home and the time and attention he needed, had flourished. Seeing Sammy go off to college had kick started something in his older brother. He’d done what he needed for Sam and was ready for his own challenge.

So Bobby had, of course, been delighted when Dean had chosen to leave his job as a mechanic and join the PD. He’d developed into a damn fine police officer under Jodi’s keen eye, before joining the city PD as a detective and working his way through the ranks into Bobby’s own team.

The kid was there under his own merits. Bobby was not one to show favouritism. It had nearly broken his heart when things had gone so far South last year. He understood Dean’s need to get away, putting space and time between himself and the devastating after effects of a disastrous case. He had tried (and failed) to convince Dean that it wasn’t his fault, but that deep rooted sense of duty, honour and responsibility were what made Dean, Dean. The death of a fellow officer was not something you just bounced back from overnight, especially when that officer was a close friend.

Bobby and Sam were video conferencing. Sam was running background checks on one Castiel Novak, at Dean’s request, and Bobby would walk through hot coals to help his boys. He and Sam were comparing notes.

“His older brother is a piece of work,” Sam said softly. “Makes me kinda glad I had Dean, even if he was a jerk!”

Bobby chuckled. “Your idjut brother may not be perfect, but I know you don’t mean that.” He stared at the grin on his computer screen. “I sure do wish he was still on my team.”

“He’ll come back, Bobby. He just needs time.”

Bobby sighed. “Has he talked to you about it?” The ‘it’ needed no explanation between them.

“Nope,” Sam shook his head, continuing matter-of-factly, “and if he ever does, I think I’d pass out from the shock. It took me four years to get him to express anything beyond an ‘I’m fine’ about Dad and he didn’t feel responsible for that. This… well, it’s been worse for him. He liked Benny… a lot, more than he had admitted I think.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said taking off the battered old cap, he wore in his downtime and wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. “I got that feeling, too.” He paused for a moment, remembering the gruff Cajun and his ready smile, before turning his attention back to his desktop.

“So, I’ve put a request in for the parent’s case. It was closed as accidental death, but I spoke to the retired detective on the phone, and he was just enough of a wily old coot to give me the heads-up on it not being the straightforward car accident it first appeared. He was just a rookie, but, high profile diplomat like that, his young pretty second wife, there was pressure to get it closed. I put a fast track on it, but you know how it is, if they can even find the files, there’ll be a delay while they courier them down here.”

Sam nodded, looking at the PI report on his own desk. He glanced at the screen raising his eyebrows in surprise, the huge grin returning. “What line of crap you pull to re-open a 35-year-old closed case?”

Bobby cleared his throat, looking shifty. “I pulled in a couple of favours, and invented some similarities to another case… It’s for Dean,” he added a little defensively. “I’m not gonna leave him swinging, ass in the wind… What have you managed to find?”

Sam shrugged. “There’s a fourth sibling, a brother, 10 years older than Castiel, but the youngest of the three older half-brothers. He vanishes from the records in 1985, but he was never officially reported missing, just upped and left one day. No further mention made. Then there’s a succession of boarding schools for Castiel, periods in England before he gets himself into Oxford… and then does his own vanishing act.”

“This time there is a missing person case, but the trail was cold. The confusion in New York at that time, there were plenty of cases. Raphael tried to get him declared dead, but he shows up in a lawyer’s office, proves he’s alive and then promptly goes under the radar again, instructing the lawyer to run his affairs via their offices. A succession of very expensive PI’s trying to track him down. Raphael Novak is a man who doesn’t like to be crossed.”

“Curious,” Bobby mused, “that he looks so hard for one brother and all but ignores the other.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam pulled a face that expressed his distaste, or as Dean referred to it, his bitch face. “Gabriel Novak didn’t have a trust fund worth a cool three mill.”

Bobby blinked. “Come again.”

“The mother, she was wealthy in her own right, orphan daughter of Lord Digby Montague, and for once they have a little money to match the status and connections.  Daddy Montague was a canny fellow, offloaded the money pit country pile to the National Trust and made some wise investments, including a house in London, which is probably worth a few million on its own.  We're not talking luxury yacht set wealthy, but certainly enough to be comfortable and never need to worry financially. The grandfathers' will puts everything in trust for Sara Novak, nee Lady Sara Montague or her descendants, in this case, her only son, one Castiel Novak. He was just a baby when she died, the others were more than well provided for by the father’s estate. The will was very specific in its terms and it’s all his and his alone. Whatever drives Dean’s new psychic buddy, it isn’t financial gain. He doesn’t take anything from the people he ‘helps’ because he doesn’t need to.”

“Well, that’d be a first,” Bobby was no fan of psychics, “there’s one rule with these bullshit merchants, it’s always about the money. There has to be an angle…”

Sam shook his head. “He stays low level, begs people not to make a big thing about it. He appears, does good or tries to at any rate and then vanishes again. If he is a fraudster, he’s exceptionally shit at it.”

“Just great,” Bobby growled. “So what does the Littlest Hobo want with Dean?”

“Damned if I know, but I can’t find any dirt on him. I’ve gone over these PI reports a dozen times, there’s nothing. He drives from place to place in a crappy old gold Lincoln Continental, stays in cheap motels and … helps.”

Bobby scratched his thinning hair and repositioned his cap, his scepticism writ large on his face.


	9. Girls Got Rhythm (Part 1)

_The rhythm was near perfection._

_It pulsed._

_An involuntary laugh escaped at the appropriateness of the word… Pulse._

_But even with a slight shift of the angle… the pattern did not work. Try again, but no, all wrong, the growl of frustration was startlingly loud in the muted hush of the studio flat. Not even worth trying to enhance this one into something. The sense of disappointment was crushing, tears threatened and were hurriedly blinked away. Crying was too much like self-pity and self-pity was only for the weak._

_The girl was completely limp now, it was nearly over, her eyes were open, but unseeing. The skin so pale and glossy. She looked like a beautiful wax-faced antique doll, leant in a sitting position at the end of the bed, not a human. The impression exacerbated by the V-shaped straight leg pose, arms limply at her sides, palms upward, the blonde head back against the bed._

_She had not been aware, of course, it was important that they didn’t suffer. The shudder that accompanied the thought was involuntary._

_"They should suffer,” Marley said. Marley wanted them to suffer. Marley enjoyed cruelty, but Marley was bad. Marley had to be ignored._

_“No, this is better, if they have to die, then that’s just about acceptable, but they should not suffer.” Her breathing was barely there now. It had been shallow for at least the last hour, but her chest was no longer really moving at all. She was so beautiful, it hurt. It really hurt that her heart was not as beautiful as she was. Why was the song so elusive? “It doesn’t make sense, this girl, she’s sweet and beautiful. She’s kind. Why hasn’t it worked?”_

_“It didn’t work with any of them because you let them sleep.”_

_“No, it didn’t work with Drew, because he was a slut. He felt the music, but he was… sinful. It worked better this time, the rhythm is right, maybe…”_

_“It’s your fault! You let them sleep! Nothing truly beautiful ever comes without suffering. You have to let them suffer. You have to make them suffer.”_

_“No!”_

_Liquid crept from beneath the beautiful girl, the expanse of white wall with its patterned lines reflecting in the amber meniscus as the fluid spread across the wooden surface and then ran into perpendicular stripes along the groove of the floorboards, the faint acrid smell spelt the end. It was over. She was gone, the song was wrong and that meant that it had to happen again. This time the tears could not be stopped._

_"Weakling,” Marley snarled, reaching into the kit bag for the scalpels and bin liners knowing it was time to take the lead and start the clean-up._

 

Crowley examined the flask cup, returning it to its position on the corner of Dean’s desk, without comment. The main office was in darkness, the only light here in the corner room, a circular pool from the Anglepoise. The rest of the team had long since left for the day, the last to leave, Garth Fitzgerald, of course, finally disappearing home just before 8. Dean was leaning back in the office chair, rubbing his tired eyes, his booted feet crossed and resting on one of the tub chairs.

“I’d offer you a coffee,” Crowley said, “but I don’t think I can cope with the disappointed tutting and subsequent sulking.”

Dean grunted, and dropped his legs, letting the momentum snap him upright. “I’ve been over and over the files. It just makes no sense. He was bled to death, but then his heart was removed. Why?”

Crowley shrugged. “A trophy?” he guessed, “or lunch?” He added dryly, raising his eyebrows and causing Dean to huff a reluctant laugh.

Dean wiped his hand down his face and pinched his nose, and then rubbed his chin. It was a gesture of frustration. He clapped his hands on his knees and began to rise from the chair and grab his jacket. “You know what. I’m going home.”

Crowley smiled at him. “The snug for a quick one?”

“Nah,” Dean shook his head, “for once, I am actually going to go and get some sleep. When does Drew's sister return from her holiday?”

"Due back the end of next week,"  Crowley replied.  "You want the honours on that one, or have you got the heads up that she's got a voracious appetite for suave and sophisticated Englishmen?"  Dean's face twisted in amusement.  Crowley was still sore at being thrown to the man-eating neighbour.  "I barely escaped clothed,"  he added without rancour.

"We'll set Garth on it.  It's just background, besides tomorrow, we start on the CCTV footage."

“Yay,” Crowley said with mock jubilation, “my favourite, a day in front of the telly.”

Even conservative estimates suggested that there was one CCTV camera for every 32 people in the UK, and unless you stayed in all day and didn’t venture outside your front door, it was pretty much impossible to go more than 100 yards in London without getting filmed by at least two or three of them. The only problem was the sheer damned volume of the footage.

Dean sincerely wished it was like CSI or James Bond so he could use face recognition software to trawl through and find Drew Nichols. In truth, it was a long slow process identifying him on one camera, then using maps and good old fashioned human eyes poring over the playback, to track his progress from shot to shot.

Charlie Bradbury, as tech advisor, had joined the team and was busy opening software on the various office computers as the team began the onerous task of searching through the accumulated videos. The nearest camera to Drew’s flat was a traffic monitoring cam on the corner of the street, it’s grainy image not even good enough to pick up number plates on the passing cars, would be no use for identifying suspects, but would give a vague impression and might lead on to better quality footage elsewhere.

Charlie sat with Garth, Dean and Crowley stood behind them, as they reviewed the footage around the time pinpointed by both the TOD and Sarah Evans statement, all of them tense with anticipation. Disappointingly, the only pedestrians on the street at that time were a couple of women with a buggy and two small straggling children running late for school.  Dean was pleased to see Garth scribbling a note to himself to trace them as potential witnesses.  

Crowley flicked a glance at Dean as a distinctive figure in a tan trench coat stepped lightly from a bus, and checking the street name, began to stride up the pavement. Dean caught the glance and rolled his eyes, shaking his head in mild irritation. He shot Crowley a glare under his brows, as he smirked and raised his palms in mock surrender.

“Garth. Now that the Paul Marsh case is closing out as likely death by natural causes, you can start reviewing the rest of the footage from the street.” Garth nodded and rolled his office chair into place as Charlie shoved herself back out of the way.

“Start the week before,” Dean advised, “and pay particular attention to any onlookers as the investigation gets underway. Our murderer may be a voyeur.”

Crowley was nodding. “Murder theory 101: like dogs returning to their own vomit.”

The office was humming with quiet activity. The team worked on the footage in groups, occasionally one or other would draw Crowley’s attention from his position by the whiteboard where he was creating a timeline for Drew. Dean had retreated into the corner office, sitting quietly with Charlie as she filled him in about Drew’s online activities. He was prolific, sometimes hooking up with three or four people in one week. There were weeks and weeks of work in following up and interviewing his connections.

It was good to be working with her again. Dean had missed Charlie when she had left the States to follow her girlfriend Dorothy to England. She had a habit of turning up in his life like a red-haired whirlwind, always filling him with her infectious happiness and joie de vivre. This secondment had been her find and he had to admit, it was just what he had needed. He watched her affectionately as her fingers danced over the keyboard and she became engrossed in what she was doing.

He stood up and wandered over to where Crowley was marking out the key points. So far, they had picked Drew up on the traffic camera, walking along his street on the way to rehearsal at 10am on the morning before he was found, entering Knightsbridge Station, on the Piccadilly line making his way across London, picking up a coffee in the Costalotta opposite the orchestra’s rambling building before meeting one of his colleagues and trotting up the steps into the studios. All very dull. No sign of him being followed.

The curiosity was that no-one so far had managed to pick him up leaving. The footage from the shop opposite afforded a good view of the entrance to the studios, a side door was covered by a street cam. Most of the orchestra had left between 6.15 and 6.45. They had resorted now to moving out in ever increasing radius to try and catch him moving away from the building. It was mind-numbing, agonisingly slow and so far fruitless.

It was Garth who suggested they go back to the statements from his family and colleagues. At first, there was nothing obvious. He’d spoken to both his wife and his sister on the phone during the day, but nothing of any significance had been mentioned.  To his colleagues Drew had seemed perfectly normal that day, no outward signs of anxiety or agitation. The rehearsal had been intense, but that wasn’t unusual when they were mastering new pieces, and they had finished a little after 6. Drew had refused the offer of a drink with some of the others.

“The bassoonist,” Garth said excitedly, “Her statement, she happened to sit near Drew during their lunch break and they got talking because he had two phones, a Galaxy S5 and an i-phone. She was asking him which he preferred because she was about to upgrade. They didn’t chat for long because someone started messaging him. He had seemed quite excited, smiling and chuckling. As she had put it, ‘it was as if he was flirting with his phone.’”

“There was only an i-phone in his apartment,” Crowley drawled, suddenly interested.

“His wife only had one number for him,” Dean mumbled, deep in thought. He turned and started sorting through the files for the listing of personal belongings. “Charlie! Do we have phone records for Drew Nicholls?” he called as he started scanning down the list. Crowley was right… no second cell phone was listed. A gentle wave of excitement started to build and ripple through the team, suddenly energised by the realisation that they had a possible lead.

  



	10. Girls Got Rhythm (Part 2)

“So,” Charlie said casually, without turning her head from her screen, “what’s with you and this Novak guy?”  
Dean blinked, and then gave a grudging little smile. “Crowley?” he asked.

“Bitch, please. Body language! I don’t need gossip to read you like a book. Even if Crowley would gossip about you, which by the by, he doesn’t do. He’s far more loyal than you give him credit for. But you gave yourself away, I practically heard you sigh when he appeared on that footage and you get all twitchy when his name is mentioned. You are smit…ten!”

Dean swallowed, thinking about what to say. There was nothing between him and Novak, he thought defensively, but he had never been able to lie to Charlie. She had always been able to wheedle the truth out of him, occasionally, like today, when he hadn’t really even admitted the truth to himself. “He’s… he made me coffee.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows, “O…kay.”

“No Charlie, he made me the perfect coffee… and a Philly cheese steak sandwich. It’s like he reads my mind, and … it’s just easy… and I … shit,” he blushed heavily. “Man, I’m lame. I’ve only met him 10 days ago…but we have lunch pretty much every day and...”

Charlie took pity on him and turned to actually look at him. “Well I’m glad,” she said firmly. “You’ve been beating the crap out of yourself about Benny for long enough. He’d want you to be happy.”

Dean sighed heavily, “Benny was just a friend, Charlie. We never… We were never… “

“Yeah, yeah, I know. How about you don’t let history repeat itself, eh! Don’t wander around doing the unrequited bullshit for two years and then nearly kill yourself with remorse because it’s too late. Life’s short, Dean. Even if it just ends up being a bit of casual fun, it would be good for you. You know I never steer you wrong… I’m too awesome.”

“You’re also infuriating, and I need those phone contacts itemised, listed and traced.”

“Multi-tasking!” She blurted out. “I can give perfect advice and solve tech problems you didn’t know you had all whilst being massively cute.”

He laughed and she winked at him, pointing to the printer, which began chunking out the phone records for the team to work through.

They split into two groups, Dean gave Garth the lead on the phone records, partially as a reward for making the connection about the phones and partly to further boost his confidence.

Crowley, with assistance from Charlie, carried on working the CCTV footage with the remainder of the team. Dean read the report Sam had e-mailed him on Castiel Novak and found himself smiling. Bobby had been chipping in, he could tell just by the way the notes read, but putting that aside, there wasn’t much that Castiel hadn’t told him about himself already. He was surprised then to note that those contacts who had been interviewed by the PI’s reported him as either a secretive or enigmatic man, who spoke little about himself, considering just how quickly and easily Novak had relinquished intimacies during their conversations. He closed the report and began reviewing the latest forensics from the crime scene, and after about an hour, found himself staring at the blown up images of the wall. Something was nagging at the back of his mind.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out glancing at the screen.

LUNCH?

He stretched. It was half 12.

1:15 COME TO THE HOUSE?

Dean hesitated. Up until now, they had only met in the gardens. Somehow it seemed significant as if Cas were inviting him even further into his life. He hit send before he could change his mind. OK

On a whim, he picked up the transparencies of the wall patterns, showing the amended and unamended splatter pattern and slipped them into an envelope, before returning to reading the forensics.

 

Many of the houses in Fielding Square had been converted to apartments, but number 18 stood on the North side of the square in a row of three or four which remained as houses.  The solid, symmetrical Georgian brown brick facade, loomed three stories above the street.  The plaster cornices framed huge sash windows and Dean could see the hint of heavy drapes behind the black reflection of the glass. Iron railings glinted in the weak sunshine which was fighting through the cloudy sky.  

He climbed the wide softly worn stone steps and pulled an antique looking bell pull.  The sonorous brass tones rang muffled through the heavy painted door.  The paint was far from fresh but did not look particularly worn, the impression was of a house well cared for.  The door opened and Cas dropped his arm wide in invitation.

Following him down a wide hallway paved with black and white tiles, Dean glanced to his right and through the gap in the doorway saw bedding crumpled on an old and comfortable looking sofa.  The rest of the furniture in the room still covered in dust sheets.  He almost walked into a solid marble plinth, throwing his hands up at the last moment to avoid the collision, he felt it jar his elbows as immovable as a 700 lbs of rock should be. The bust on top did not even have the good grace to wobble.

“My ancestors had a tendency to self-aggrandisement,”  Cas commented wrily.  “I’m afraid that as a child I used the Honorable Lord Grey Montague, MP for Salisbury, here for catapult target practice and chipped his wig just above his right ear.”  His grin was sudden and impish.  “I’d only been here a week.  I was expecting a beating at the very least. Mrs Parker gave me a dustpan and brush, and then called me into the kitchen for a bowl of rice pudding.  I thought I was in heaven.” Dean found himself imagining what it must have been like for Cas, suddenly free of his authoritarian and unloving older brother.  He thought, not for the first time, of his guilt at the sense of relief he had felt when his own father had died, and the burden of acting as a buffer between him and Sam was finally lifted from his shoulders.  

Cas lead him towards the back of the house and pushed open a heavy oak door.  The brightness of the room stung his eyes for a second after the cool, heavy darkness of the hallway.  Tree dappled sunlight streamed through South facing windows as the early Summer sunshine finally broke through the clouds outside.  An ancient looking scrubbed table higher than normal, dominated the centre of the room and stools which reminded Dean of bar chairs from back home, were tucked neatly around it.  

A solid stone counter ran around all three walls.  Dean could have stored his belongings three times over in the cupboards on one wall alone.  It was cool, light and airy, and Cas, who seemed strangely underdressed in only shirt and trousers, grabbed a large, padded glove and took an enamel coffee pot from the top of the expansive old range.  

He gestured Dean to sit, before pouring coffee into a large white china mug.  Dean's lunch set out ready for him on the table.  The coffee held the vaguest hint of something else today.  Dean sniffed it trying to identify the subtle change.  He looked up questioningly and Novak was smiling with that knowing look which, although he found it utterly irritating, also made his stomach flip slightly.

“Hazelnut,” he said, his voice low and husky.  “I added some to the grind.  You like it?”

He actually thought for a brief second about saying no, just because he was fairly certain that Novak was only making it a question out of some weird sense of politeness and had known damn well that he would like it before he had even tried it, let alone thought about it himself.

“You,” he paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip of the elixir, “Are a freak, Cas.”

Castiel Novak started slightly, a disconcerted look flashed briefly across his face, to be replaced with a rueful grin. He nodded slightly, and gave a little huff of a laugh, leaning forward resting his elbows on the table.  The two men smiled at each other before each looking away to the side.

Dean liked seeing a smile appear on the impassive face. The blue eyes, always bright, sparkled more, improbably deep crinkles appeared.  A row of impossibly white teeth appeared inside the soft pink mouth and even when it was just the hint of a smile it lit him like a flaring match. He shrugged mentally, he could bear to see that smile more often, especially when he had caused it.

_“You are smit…ten.”  Charlie’s voice echoed through his head.  “Don’t let history repeat itself…”_

They ate in companionable silence until Dean realised with a sigh that he had finished his coffee.  Cas replenished it without comment, and removed their plates to the deep butler sink, before returning to his perch at the table.

“I…er…I brought something with me for you to look at."  Dean began awkwardly.  "We think there’s a pattern to the blood marks on the wall, but none of us can work it out.”  He removed the envelope from the messenger bag he had secreted it in to bring it out of the station.  “I don’t need to tell you…”

“I will not let anyone see it, or know that I have it,” Cas affirmed, still with a slight smile on his face.

“There’s two sets of transparencies.  The first is the blood splatter pattern, the second is some carefully painted amendments.”  Cas nodded, his face registering no surprise.  “The wall was painted to create a canvas, and this is obviously important to the killer…”

Cas was shaking his head.  “I was at the scene remember," he pointed out quietly.  "It’s not art,” he said.  “Well, not in the Jackson Pollock sense.  It’s not a canvas, it’s just a blank page when they paint the wall.”  Cas’ face had drawn into a scowl of concentration and looked pained.

Dean swallowed.  Natural scepticism fighting with his steady, currently unexplained and to him plain unfathomable, faith in Castiel Novak.  What the hell was he thinking, just blindly believing and trusting this curious man?

Surprisingly soft fingers closed suddenly over his hand.  “I’m sorry.  I realise this is a huge leap of faith for you, I just… I can’t…” the gravelly voice was strained with emotion, “I find it hard to bear.  Not being able to help when you know someone is…heading for trouble.  I wish I could tell you… explain myself better...to you.”  Castiel shook his head and dropped his gaze.  

Dean stared at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else, he was gripping back, entwining fingers with a man who should be a complete stranger… and yet it felt, peculiar as it sounded, right.

“You are helping,” he said softly, and he meant it.  “I don’t believe in this psychic shit, but you’re a clever bastard, and somehow you read people and situations and you work stuff out.  If you believe it’s mojo, that’s fine.  Bottom line, it can’t do any harm and just maybe you’ll think of something we’re all missing.”

The half-smile returned, this time shining with gratitude and Dean felt his heart swell a little… Jesus, he needed to get a grip.  He withdrew his hand a little self-consciously as his phone started to ring.  The familiar swelling intro for the Black Sabbath track denoting a call from Crowley.

“Dean.”  It jarred. Crowley never used his first name and sounded strangely apologetic as he warned, “you’re not going to like this… There’s a link between Novak and the Nicholls family.”  Dean’s knuckles whitened as his hand tensed around his phone.  He closed his eyes briefly, before walking away from the table and out of the kitchen with a quick backward glance at Castiel who was utterly absorbed in looking at the transparencies.


	11. Girls Got Rhythm (Part 3)

“What’s the link?” Dean asked trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice, he swallowed feeling a little sick. It mattered. Too much.

“Let me start at the beginning. I’ve just been interviewing Perdita Nicholls. She returned early, apparently Sant Moritz is dull and full of back-packers at this time of year, how the other half live, eh?”

“This is all very interesting, but…”

“Patience is a virtue.”

Dean growled, and Crowley relented. “We got to chatting a little bit, once the formal questions were out of the way. She’s a nice woman, not entirely approving of her brothers’ treatment of his wife, and we got to talking about what he was like as a little boy, and school days…”

“Crowley!”

“... she went to Roedean.”

“And?” Dean failed to see any significance, he vaguely recognised the school name as being particularly prestigious, but that was all.

“She was at school with Lady Sara Montague. More than that, they were friends. She went to her wedding…The minute I mentioned the Novak name, she lit up like a Christmas tree. Apparently she had quite a crush on Michael Novak, and went to stay with Sara in Washington, while Charles was posted there for a year waiting for an Ambassadorship. She stayed on for a while when he left to take up his posting abroad, because Sara was pregnant. Castiel Novak is Perdita Nicholl's godson."

Dean rubbed his hand over his face. The scale of it stunned him into silence. He let the phone drop briefly until the tinny sounds emitting from the tiny speaker became louder and he realised Crowley was shouting his name into the phone.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” The compassion in Crowley’s voice was all too real. “but he needs to come back in for questioning.”

“I’ll bring him in.” Fuck. He’d compromised the investigation. What the hell had he been thinking? And now he was stood twenty feet away from a potential suspect to whom he had given evidence. Fuck. He pushed the sense of betrayal deep away, ignoring his emotions and concentrating on the professional impact of the discovery. He walked leaden-footed back towards the kitchen. Cas was still engrossed in the transparencies, and Dean realised he had a pen and ruler in his hand and was drawing on them. He looked up expectantly as he realised Dean was back in the room, the look of excitement on his face fading into puzzlement when Dean did not return his smile.

“I need you to come back to the station with me,” Dean stated flatly.

“That sounds official,” Cas said softly, looking concerned. “What’s happened?”

“You know I can’t discuss that with you. Let's just say new evidence has come to light. Is there anything you think maybe you ought to share with me?” Dean could feel the anger building, high spots of pink burned his cheeks, and he felt his jaw tensing.

Cas just stared at him, he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, a fleeting emotion passed across his face, too quick to read before his features closed down and the impassive expression slid into place. It was too much for Dean, his disappointment with this man, with himself...with his sorry excuse for a life, the dam was bursting, suddenly infuriated, he began shouting, forgetting protocols and conservation of evidence, forgetting everything in his rage. “Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me you knew the family? Do you think it would have mattered? Is this some kind of fucking game to you? Playing me with cheap parlour tricks. Am I some fucking joke to you? Dean Winchester, prize patsy.”

Blue eyes blinked under the onslaught. “I…”

“Save it,” Dean snarled. “Just fucking stow it. I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid. Who did you talk to at the PD? Did it take you long to research me? Find out about me. You’re good, Novak. Fucking brilliant in fact. I know the psychic schtick is bull crap, but I really thought you believed it yourself.”

Cas swallowed hard and stared at his hands, resting next to the pen and ruler on the table. Dean closed the distance between them and snatched the transparencies away from him. Cas automatically flinched, recoiling away. “He thought I was going to hit him,” Dean realised. He took a deep breath and felt his rage draining away. He’d seen enough victims of abuse to recognise the instinctive protective gesture. Hell, he'd done much the same thing himself too many times, trying to diffuse his father's anger by making himself as small and non-threatening as possible because you either did that or you fought back.

His temper had dissipated as quickly as it had flared, but it made no difference to what had to happen next. “You need to come in for interview.”

The dark head did not move. Castiel stood motionless, continuing to stare at his hands.

“Cas,” Dean said softly, his experience as a cop fighting with his instincts as a human being. “Look at me, Cas.”

Slowly, Cas lifted his head. Hooded lids and lashes hiding his eyes as he continued to stare stubbornly at his hands.

“I said ‘Look at me’”

The intensity of the pain in the blue eyes took Dean’s breath away. They stared at one another, neither knowing what to say until Dean broke the eye contact. “I’ll get one of the DC’s to contact you this afternoon to book you in for the interview.” He grabbed his bag and walked out of the house, the heavy front door slamming behind him, pretending the sting in his eyes was due to the sudden exposure to the outside air.

 

 

Dean sat in his office, staring at the wall. He glanced at the clock. 3 pm. Sam would probably be settling down to some god awful rabbit food breakfast with his happy family, Bobby would be in the office working through paperwork and already drinking his umpteenth coffee to counteract the fact that he’d had too much scotch the night before. Jody would be rounding up however many disaffected and lost children and youths she was currently fostering and herding them into the people carrier she kept for this very purpose so she could drop them all at the relevant schools, before heading into work or move about town, making sure folks felt safe and cared for. Methodically going through the whereabouts of everyone he knew, to distract himself from the one person he didn’t want to think about, he was making himself feel homesick. He grabbed his phone and dialled the number, hearing Jess’ voicemail spiel when Crowley appeared at the door. He hung up just as the beep to leave a message sounded.

“I bought you a coffee.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “If you got it from the canteen, I sincerely doubt you can call it coffee.”

“Actually smart arse, I got it from a deli bar in Exhibition Road. Perdi Nicholls recommended it.” He wiggled the cup in front of Dean. “It’s some fancy-schmancy Brazillian blend,” he crooned, eyebrows raised.

Dean sighed and gave Crowley a crooked smile. “Since when did you start being so considerate.”

“Ah, Winchester. It may surprise you to learn that despite my devil-may-care demeanour, I do have a heart... Unlike, ironically, our vic.”

Dean rolled his eyes. "You," he paused, "...are nowhere near as funny as you think you are." He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly flushed. “Shit, Crowley, I owe you an apology. I’ve put you in an awkward position, compromised the case. Maybe I should just resign now and save them the trouble of firing…”

“Enough!” Crowley snapped, bringing him up sharp. “Drink up, like a good boy, and let’s get to work. We need to try and find out whether your boyfriend is in it up to his neck… or not. Don’t glare at me. You have good judgement, it’s one of your more irritating qualities. You like him and you think he’s a good guy, so instead of moping about like a dyspeptic squirrel, pull yourself together and let’s combine our unique talents and either clear his name, or nail his ass, although I suppose you actually could combine the two.”

Dean stared at him incredulously. “You…? I don’t get it...What’s your angle, Crowley? You don’t even like the man.”

“No, true, I think he's a dick, but I'm a copper first and foremost, and truth is truth. My new bezzie Perdi says that once Sara died, Raphael Novak was pretty determined to shut down all connections. She was pretty aggrieved, dear, dear Michael dropped her like a hot brick under a bit of pressure from his big brother."

"She never met ‘the boy’ growing up every time she tried to establish contact Raphael shot her down, she feels pretty guilty about it. Feels she let Sara down by failing to keep her promise to watch over him and guide him, but she was little more than a kid herself and Novak was a rich and powerful man."

"Nicholls is hardly a rare name, even if he knew about his mother’s friends. Add to that the fact that Andrea Nicholls didn’t have a clue who he was and that suggests that it’s entirely possible, that he didn’t know. Which, incidentally, is what he told DC Murphy when he rang him to arrange the interview.”

Dean stared at his colleague as if he had suddenly developed another set of arms and was about to speak when the desk phone rang. "Tomorrow afternoon at 3 pm, by the way. Just so you can creep down the corridor and lech at him from the fire exit." Crowley snatched up the phone with a twisted grin before Dean could respond, listening intently for several seconds before asking, "Where?” He pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled on the pad on the desk. “Well, well,” he said to Dean. "We got another body, and this time it's the same MO, right down to the abstract on the wall."

"A woman?" Dean asked. "Young?"

"Don't tell me... Mystic Meg's prediction?"

"Is he right?"

Crowley’s hesitation gave Dean his answer, his voice full of humour when he eventually spoke. “Maybe we should just cut out the investigation and let wonder boy solve it on his own.”

"Or maybe we should just charge him now because the only way he could possibly know this stuff is if he's involved.” Dean dragged his hand down over his face. He was sick of the internal conflict, everything he knew was telling him that he’d been played and that Novak was a manipulative sociopath, but his instincts were telling him something very different.

“Oh, you have it bad, don’t you!” Crowley observed dryly.

“If I didn't know you better, Fergus, I'd think you were jealous."

Crowley gave a little huff. “That’s better, the Winchester sass is returning. Come on, grab your kit, Pinkerton, and let’s go apply our more earthbound techniques to the latest crime scene.”

Dean stretched slowly to his feet, as Crowley began mobilising the troops.


	12. Girls Got Rhythm (Part 4)

Jane Coleman was leaning one-handed against the body van, her protective suit waiting to be zipped up, slotting her feet into bright blue plastic overshoes, when the two detectives arrived.  Jen O’Brien appeared beside her lugging a heavy equipment bag, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders.  “Anything else you need boss?”  she asked, glancing just a fraction too long at the American as he stretched up to his full height from the Honda passenger seat.

“Why don’t you just talk to him?”  Coleman said with a smile, taking the bag from her assistant before pulling her zipper firmly up.  “I’m sure you can think of something to chat about, besides corpses.  I can handle this on my own.  Go on, go make eyes at the pretty cop.”  And with a nod to Winchester, who appeared to realise he was the subject of the conversation, judging by the slight blush and awkward little inclination of his head, she turned on her heel and walked into the converted Victorian terrace.

“Fuck it,” O’Brien muttered under her breath and closed the space between them before she had the chance to change minds.  

 

 

Professor MacArthur was a broken man.  His face, normally ruddy, was currently the colour of unset putty.  It wrinkled in places that indicated he smiled a lot, but no emotion showed now. His forehead relatively smoothed and the area around his eyes a web of laughter lines.  His blue-green eyes were rheumy, the whites threaded pink and red and currently unfocused.  He was sat on the ambulance trolley, clutching a white plastic cup as though it were the last lifebelt on the Titanic.  His soft tweed tailoring plastered in blood.

The paramedic talking to Crowley was adamant.  “We’re transferring him to the hospital.  He is in deep, deep shock. Catatonic in fact.”

“Well, when do you think we will be able to question him.”

“I’ve no idea.  Sorry chap, but even if I didn’t have to put the patient first, I have to be honest you wouldn’t get anything out of him anyway.  He’s utterly unresponsive and maybe for some time.”

“OK, but one of the SOCO’s will need to come with you to take samples and preserve evidence.”

The medic nodded and climbed lightly into the ambulance. A few minutes later Crowley slammed the door and watched it pull slowly into the traffic.  He looked around him for his colleagues and spotted Winchester talking to the FP’s assistant, what was her name, some Irish concoction, O’Dowd, O’Connell… whatever.  Short of sticking her tongue in his ear, her body language couldn’t get much more obvious.  Interesting.  It would do him good to have a distraction.

Crowley ducked under the tape, flashing his badge briefly to the plod guarding the door.  Coleman flicked him a quick greeting nod and continued her work.  He idled in the corner as everyone else in the room moved with activity and purpose.

The girl’s body was lay on the bed.  Curled onto her pillow, she looked peaceful, her hair falling over her face, and a soft toy tucked under her arm, which lay on the blanket. The overall effect was of a child, put to bed and carefully tucked in after dropping off during the bedtime story.

“Curious isn’t it?” Groves' voice cut through his speculation.  “I’d lay odds on her being posed like that, but it’s so different to the way the fiddler was left.  This feels far more...”

“...cherished.”  Crowley finished for him.  “The father is catatonic, covered in blood smear.”

“Ah,”  Steve grimaced.  “Poor bastard.”  He thought briefly of his own two little girls, currently leading his wife a merry dance on their half-term holiday down in Cornwall.  “You think he found her and put her to bed?”

“I’d lay my own odds on it,” Crowley affirmed, echoing the Senior SOCO’s phrase.  “Poor bastard indeed.”

 

 

The main CID office was buzzing, the next morning.  Two similar cases was big, even in London.  The possibility of a serial killer hung on everyone’s lips and the brass were getting edgy, a third victim would make it official and it would only be a matter of time before the press caught on.  Dean, fresh from the Deputy Chief Constable’s office with a mandate to draw in whatever resources he needed so long as he ‘damn well get the job done’ dusted his hands and stood beside Crowley beside the evidence board and timeline.  

He smiled at Jo Harvelle, looking vaguely nervous in her civvies.  She had nearly lost her composure when he had spoken to her that morning offering the opportunity to ‘act’ up in CID as part of the incident team but she had managed to contain the whoop of excitement until he had left the rec room and had nearly beaten him back here, despite getting changed into a pair of ripped jeans and he squinted appreciatively, a faded old ACDC T-shirt.

The last couple of officers were settling themselves into position, ready for the review.  Dean stretched his fingers and pushed himself up onto his feet.

“Right,” he began. “We all know where we are with the Nicholls’ case, but a quick refresher.  There are still a dozen or more pages of phone records to trawl through.  Our tech team will close out on those and I want you three,” he nodded to the detectives already seated at their computer screens,” to carry on the review of CCTV footage, we still have a gap in his timeline, between the end of his working day and the activity that lead to his death.”

“That brings me to our new victim.  Lettuce MacArthur, 22 years old.  Pianist/composer.  Found by her father Professor MacArthur.  Eminent musician, a lecturer at the Royal College of Music and patron of the Royal National Philharmonic Orchestra.”  This caused a ripple of recognition within the team.  “I don’t need to tell you then that we have multiple possibilities for crossover of acquaintances, colleagues, students and audience.  I want no stone unturned.  I want everyone either accounted for and alibied or pushed up the chain for further investigation. No lead is too small here.  If need be re-interview anyone who has links to both.”

“Finally, Fitzgerald,”  Garth practically stood to attention, “I want you and your team looking for commonalities and discrepancies between the two cases.”  He returned his attention to the rest of the room.  “The similarities are striking, but I want solid groundwork, no assumptions.  Theorise if you want to, but keep your minds open.”  Dean pushed back against the wall with his butt and stretched to his full height in one smooth movement.

“Well, don’t just all sit around gawking,”  Crowley urged.  “You heard the man.  To work, people.”

Dean gave him a crooked smile…”to work, people?”  he mocked softly and was rewarded with a glare.  “I’ll make a ‘yank’ of you yet!”

  
  


 

This was the backbone of police work.  The gradual, slow building of an evidence base, each scrap of information carefully catalogued and recorded.  At least 75% of it was superfluous, but too many cases had fallen apart at court because of poor administration.  Bobby had schooled Dean well, his disciplined and steady approach to evidence collection was widely admired.  

The day was nearly over for most of the team, his stomach growled as a result of skipped lunch.  Somehow he hadn’t wanted to eat, focusing instead on completing, recording and cataloguing paperwork and evidence.  Now, as the day drew to a close, he stared unseeing at the remaining, so far unsorted mess of papers on his desk.

 

**The words in the file were beginning to swim out of focus.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted against a headache which had been chasing around his temporal lobe like a distant rattling thunderstorm, which would at some point break into the technicolour storm of a migraine.**

**He jumped slightly, as a deep voice broke the silence of the empty office.  “Do you have any intention of eating or sleeping again, brother?”**

**His face twitched involuntarily into a side grin.  He stood up slowly, letting his back stretch, and cracking his neck.  The case, this case, was all-consuming.  The pitiful broken remains of the Jane Doe, left to die wrapped in a filth-stained, piss-smelling carpet behind a truck stop on I90 was haunting him.  It had long since been dumped into the cold case box, but Dean could not let it go.**

**He was working his normal caseload, then spending every spare minute scanning missing persons reports and going over the files, to the point he had memorised every image.  When he closed his eyes he could draw in his mind the soft outlines of the delicate flower pattern on the scrap of nightdress that had been found bunched up around her neck.  See the death grimace and the smudge of coral lipstick, the colour clashing where it spread across her pale blue cheek, mingling with the black tear stain runs of mascara.**

**“You need a break, Dean,”  Benny chided.  “Come eat, and we’ll get a couple of beers and then I’ll come back with you and we’ll pull an all-nighter, see if we can’t crack this sucker together.”**

**Dean reached down for his jacket, and with one last long glance at the artist’s reconstruction of a healthy looking girl, with soft curls of dark hair and warm freckle kissed cheeks puffed up from the gap-toothed smile, he clicked off his desk light and followed Benny across the office, shucking his arms into his sleeves as he walked.**

 

The rap of knuckles on the door made him start and he looked up to see Jo Harvelle hovering hesitantly.  He gestured her to enter.  She handed him an envelope, he realised it was the one containing the transparencies that Cas had been drawing on.

“I found it on the floor by the timeline,”  she said quietly.  He nodded his thanks, admonishing himself in his head for being so careless. “Have you tried to play it?”  He stared at her dumbfounded.

“Huh?”

“The blood music.  From the walls.  Have you tried to play it?”

He pulled the sheets from the envelope, remembering the excited look on Cas’ face when he had first looked up in the kitchen.  Across each of the rows of dots was a neat set of five parallel lines. Cas had cracked the pattern.

Dean grabbed his desk phone and called the reception and then strode from the room, leaving Jo standing confused in his wake.  He almost tripped in his haste to get down the stairs to the second floor, where one of the corridors was segregated into a number of interview rooms.

A door had opened and he saw Murphy shaking hands with Cas.  The DC looked momentarily confused when he saw Dean approaching, DS Crowley had already called the interview to a close and asked him to show Mr Novak out.  “Sir?”

Cas turned, the accommodating smile on his face freezing in place when he saw Dean stood a few feet away.  “I’ll show Mr Novak to Reception, Murphy.”

The older man shrugged and decided to take the precious extra minutes as part of his overdue break, his mind already on the prospect of a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea in the canteen.  

They walked in silence along the corridor, down the stairs and out through the Reception into the cool air of early evening.  They paused on the wide stretch of tarmac between the building and the main gate, staring at each other, neither seemingly able to break the tension, until Cas expelled a sharp breath down his nose and moistened his lips.  “I understand your cynicism, but you have to believe me.  I had no idea who Drew Nicholls was before last week.  The only people I know, who knew my mother are my brothers, and the Parkers.  My mother and father are both strangers to me, I don’t remember them, I…”

“It’s OK, Cas.”  Dean dropped a hand onto his shoulder in unspoken apology.  “I believe you, I don’t quite understand what the hell is happening here...to me, but I know you’re telling the truth about this.  It was just…I don’t trust easy...”

He dried up mid-sentence when the look of relief that ran across Castiel’s face hurt him to his core. “I’ve been a cop a long time, Cas, and one thing I do is read people.  There is something you’re not being honest about, but it’s not this.”

Cas opened his mouth to speak, but Dean pressed on.  If he didn’t get this out quickly he would weaken and he couldn’t afford to do that.  “Thank you, for everything so far, you broke the code, the music…”  Dean could see Cas smiling in his peripheral vision, he could not look at his face, could not bear to see that smile fade.  He screwed his eyes shut, and when he re-opened them he fixed his stare on the row of squad cars parked inside the compound.  “I’ve already compromised this investigation enough.  I’m putting Crowley in an impossible situation.  This… whatever the hell ‘this’ is, stops today.”

He turned quickly and walked away fists clenched so tightly that he could feel his fingernails cutting into his palms, painfully aware of the blue eyes trained on his retreating figure.


	13. Girls Got Rhythm (Part 5)

Jo Harvelle had found it very difficult to keep her demeanour calm and professional on that first day.  Her first instinct had been to throw her arms around Winchester and kiss his cheek, but that would really not have been a good start.

Her hands had shaken so much as she stripped off her uniform and changed into her ‘normal’ clothes she’d had difficulty undoing the buttons of her bobby blues.  Really and truly the jeans and shirt she’d worn on the bus that first morning weren’t smart enough for CID, but she was damned if she was going to spend her first day up there reminding everybody she was a woodentop.  

So far in her first three days, she’d taken the requisite amount of ribbing and hazing, been subjected to jibes about making the tea (not forgetting the digestives) and just about worked out the pecking order.  She yawned and stretched.  She’d carried on with her early shift starts, waking at 5 out of habit, and hitting the station by 5.45am, even though she no longer needed her 15 minutes suit up time, but it was Friday, tomorrow, barring a callback, she could lie in.

Garth Fitzgerald had set her to going over the door to door and witness statements from the days leading up to and shortly after the first victim’s murder.  It was a steady methodical task, and she applied herself to it wholeheartedly.  It certainly beat wandering around town being abused by 100-yard hero teenagers and asked what time the next sightseeing bus was due by tourists.

“Garth?” she said slowly.  They were the only two left in the main CID office, most leaving as their shifts finished or sloping off after a couple of extra hours.  The two seniors were in a meeting with the DCC, updating him on the ‘frustrating lack of progress’ over the last week, no doubt.  Patience was not in the DCC’s vocabulary.

“Hm?”

“The CCTV footage in the street, there were two women with the kids, right?”

“Uh-hm?

“There’s only one witness statement here.  Jenna Hughes.”

Garth alt tabbed and scrolled through the statement lists.  He frowned and then rolled over in his office chair. “Pull up her statement.”

The pdf was stubbornly slow, but it opened and the scanned paperwork appeared on the screen.  “Jesus!”  Garth exclaimed.

Jo laughed.  “Mac,” she said.  “He’s even lazier than his handwriting.  A right old shiny arse sweat… he’s coasting down to that cushty pension.”. She laughed at the expression of horror still writ large on Garth’s face.  “So... she was running late with the kids for school…”

“You can decipher that?”  Garth raised his eyebrows and smiled.  “It looks like Sanskrit!”

“Ha,” Jo stabbed the screen with her finger.  “She didn’t know that woman, they just struck up a conversation as they were walking along.”  They stared at each other.

“Where did she first see her?  Dammit, did he even ask? Damn flatfoot.”  Jo flushed, feeling suddenly defensive.  Sorry,” Garth muttered.  “But this might be important.  It’s a good shout,”  he added, trying to redeem himself a little.  He rather liked Jo.

She scanned the rest of the statement quickly, but it was short on detail.  Garth leant across her and hit print.  He winked at her, it didn’t really work with his normally geeky, shy demeanour, but she gave him kudos for trying. “Best give her a follow-up and find out about this other woman.”

 

“Hot date?” Crowley asked, stroking the side of his pint glass, with languorous pleasure.  The roasting they had received from the DCC still ringing in his ears.  The man was a prat, but sadly he was a ‘senior’ prat, so what he said had to be borne.

“Hm?”  Winchester was clearly distracted, he looked apprehensive and Crowley doubted it was due to what the senior prat had had to say.  Dean had no more respect for him than Crowley did.  

“You’ve looked at your watch at least 5 times since we sat down, and you are attitude says ‘present’ like a turd at Christmas.”

Dean sighed.  He was doing it a lot lately, he felt.  “I agreed to go for a drink with Jen O’Brien… the FP assistant,” he clarified when Crowley looked a little vague.  

“I know who she is hot stuff, she’s been making moon eyes at you since you started.”  O’Brien, that was it…not O’Malley.

“I’m supposed to be meeting her just after 7 in Soho and I… I don’t think I can through with it.”

“Hells bells man, it’s only a drink.  With an attractive, intelligent woman, I might add.”

Dean looked up at him with a harried expression.  “Grow a pair,” Crowley drawled, “you might even enjoy yourself.  Anyone would think you were going to your own execution!” 

 

Jen O’Brien had been certain that Winchester was going to bottle out on her.  She had very nearly chickened out herself to be fair.  Maybe it was folly to mix work and pleasure, but she had talked herself into dismissing that as very old-fashioned.  Grown men and women could separate their social lives from their work lives.

It had taken a long time to decide what to wear.  Opting for soft fabrics and simple casual elegance in the end.  

She’d decided on 68 and Boston in Soho, and she was acutely aware that by being early she was going to have to stand on the street.  She tried hard to resist the urge to look up and down the street and into passing taxis aware it would look as though she had been stood up, but it was hard.  She had to admit to a little flood of relief when she saw his bowlegged gait strolling down the street towards her.

She realised suddenly that the place she had thought chic and cool when she arranged the drink was actually probably a little pretentious for Dean’s simple tastes, and she felt like kicking herself when he took one look at the raucous swinging crowd in the Boston cocktail bar and with a simple gesture ushered her down into 68. Overthought grape stewing beat 70’s pseudo chic cocktails any day, apparently.

They found a neat little corner to themselves.  “Ladies choice,” he smiled pleasantly.

She looked at him perplexed.  “Red, White or Rose?  You choose the shade and I’ll pick the tone.”

“Erm red, I think.”  He nodded and began perusing the list, picking out a New World Syrah-Grenache without much hesitation.  It arrived and rather than tasting it himself, he directed the waiter to pour for her.  It smelt of summer strawberries and tasted fruity with a tang of something peppery.  She stared at him in surprise and he gave her a bashful grin as he nodded their acceptance of the bottle.  “My friend, back in the states, something of a connoisseur, I picked up a thing or two.”

“Clearly a good friend to have,”  she laughed.  “It’s delicious.”

An expression of sadness flitted so briefly in the green eyes, that she wasn’t sure she hadn’t misread it.  But then he asked her about her day and he was charming and friendly and she revelled in his company, enjoying the attention he was giving her.  The conversation flowed and began to turn to family and background, normally she shied away from it, but emboldened by the wine and his easy manner, she relaxed into the subject.

“It was funny really, we’d never had any money, not spare money before, that’s why the life insurance was such a huge deal.  That’s the trouble with having no idea who your father even was, it’s not like there’s any child support coming in.  Mum worked hard but being a single parent with twins we never had much to go round.  She worked all hours to make sure we could get some of the extras the other kids had.”

“I look back now, and I realise just how much she sacrificed to make sure we could go swimming or have music lessons.  She was amazing. When she got sick, I’d just finished my degree, couldn’t get a break in my field for love nor money, but luckily something else came up and I took it.”

“It never even occurred to me to not be her carer, but she needed such a lot of care.  I got so tired sometimes.”  She paused and waited for the emotion to subside a little.  He said nothing, just waited patiently with a look of encouragement and let her talk when she was ready.  He was so lovely, she could hardly believe it.  She swallowed and continued, “when she finally succumbed I suddenly had time on my hands and resources.  I quit my job, topped up my degree with a masters in Forensics and here I am, working with the Forensic Pathologist.”

“Goodness, I feel like I’ve been to confessional.  You are quite the listener.”

He grinned at her.  “In my line of work…?  Of course, I know how to draw out a confession.”

“Touché.”

The bottle had diminished to dregs.  She ordered a plate of antipasto and the waiter suggested a Pinot Noir.  Dean began to regale her with tales about Sam, Bobby and Jody.

“So… “ he chuckled hard, “I heard him flick the switch and then poof, the big dumb kid he just sits there blinking at me… man, you should have seen him covered in baby powder, I thought he was gonna kill me.  For a grown man, he sure does spend a lot of time on his hair!”

“You seem very proud of him though, you must miss your family, living this far away.”

“Aw, Sammy’s settled now, he has Jess and his kids, he doesn’t need me like he used to.  He’s fine.”

“That’s not quite what I meant,” she smiled, fixing him with her almond-like eyes.  

“It was time.”  Dean said quietly, “After Dad was killed, hell before that even, it was me and Sammy vs the world.  He needed me and I wasn’t gonna let him down, no matter what.  I can relax now, he’s big enough and ugly enough to look after himself… man, is he big enough.  One of Jody’s foster kids, Alex, she calls him the sasquatch.  Sam’s always been good with kids, he’s a great father.”

“He had a good role model.”

“Hell, no.  Sam worked that out on his own, our father, he tried hard you know, but he… at the end of the day, he… well, he could be a violent man...and they argued something fierce.”

“I actually meant you,” she said softly, reaching across the table to take his hand.

For the second time that evening she thought she saw a look of sadness in his eyes.  But the moment was gone and he was pulling his shoulders back, stretching himself and the waiter took it as his cue to come to the table.

He was the perfect gentleman, putting her into her cab with a polite peck on the cheek, and a promise to call soon.  She flopped back in the seat, with the miserable feeling that she had done something wrong.

 

 

Castiel watched from the shadows, not wishing to be noticed.  He slipped his fingers into his pocket closing them around the blade of the peeling knife he had brought with him, reassured by the smoothness of the worn handle as it slotted lightly into his palm, the apple in his other pocket, his excuse for carrying it bumped against his leg.  He hoped the law hadn’t changed since he left England.  It would be just his luck to end up getting arrested for possession of a concealed weapon.  That would truly cap a disastrous week.

Castiel was amazed that Dean was not more aware of his surroundings, he was a policeman after all, but he supposed he had been drinking in that absurd wine bar.  “Focus,” he snapped at himself, “this is too important. He can go for drinks with attractive female colleagues if he wants to, he’s not mine.”

He had expected it to be more difficult, but he was still wary.  Castiel was always cautious,  complacency was a deadly enemy.  

It had been easy enough earlier on that evening to follow him from his flat, slipping onto the tube a carriage down, the hustle and bustle of London affording him some cover. Catching glimpses of the dirty blonde head through the connecting door, picking up the body language that indicated he was leaving.  He’d briefly lost him in Tottenham Court Road station, but soon picked him up again rounding the corner into Soho Square, after all, Dean was relatively easy to tail, his tall figure and distinctive gait made him easy to spot in a crowd. He had watched from a discrete distance as Dean greeted the auburn-haired woman, standing on the corner of Greek Street, trying not to look anxious.  

Castiel had swallowed his own mixture of jealousy and anxiety, feeling a little sick as he watched Dean guide her gently inside, not touching her, just guiding hands, one open palmed at the small of her back, and the other sweeping ahead to motion her inside.

Dean held the door, and with a quick glance up and down the street had followed her in.  Castiel had muttered a vague curse when he saw them head downstairs, momentarily wondering whether it was worth the risk of going in.  He shook his head the venue was far too small.  He had found himself a doorway with a clear view of 68 and Boston’s entrance, and settled his back against the wall to wait.

Now they had parted, she had been tucked safely into a cab and Dean was alone.  The tube was still running, but Dean did not turn up Greek Street, instead, he was turning up the side street towards the Charing Cross Road.  No, no, no, this was not good.  Cas felt his heartbeat begin to escalate and it wasn’t from the slight quickening of pace to keep up.  Where the hell was he going?  He should be going home.  With a growl of frustration, Cas found himself trapped the wrong side of a traffic barrier as a stag party stumbled into his path. By the time he fought his way through them, he had lost sight of Dean.  He whirled around, a little frantic, before stopping and centring himself, pushing down the little burp of panic.  Where would he be going?  It was still relatively early for a Friday night in London.  Stop, he told himself, don’t overthink it. He crossed the road and stood at the junction. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he put one foot in front of the other and let his instincts guide him.

 

His mind was a turmoil of emotions and thoughts. Conversations about his father always left him with a gaping confused sense of loss, guilt and hurt.  John had tried his best, but he had lost the love of his life and it had broken him.  Dean could understand it now, but he did not want to be his father.  It was his greatest fear, that he would become just like John Winchester.

He gripped his own elbows, holding himself, remembering how carefully he chose his words or actions, never crying, never showing emotion, never provoking that look of pain on his father’s face that inevitably lead to the bottle and then to fists and fury.  The burning anger and resentment, but never fighting back, always accepting no matter the cost to dignity.  The most important thought to keep himself centred that this must never happen to Sammy, he must never be on the receiving end.  He blinked, dammit too much wine.

And then he saw Cas recoiling from him.  Just what exactly had Raphael done to Cas over the years.  His anger focused like a hot coal.  If he ever met the man...but that wasn’t very like now was it.

 _"I actually meant you.”_ Her comment had been too much.  His eyes burned and he wiped angrily at his own cheeks.  

Walking aimlessly to clear his head, he was dimly aware of someone approaching him quickly from behind and took in his surroundings, his aimless stroll to clear his head had brought him to the periphery of Covent Garden.  He was just turning when he gasped in surprise as something hit him from the side.  Hard.  In the ribs.  He started to turn back the other way in the direction of the punch, but his legs were swept out from underneath him.  He grunted as the flagstones stamped the air from his lungs.  He felt something running under his arm towards his back and shoulder, and clutched at his side, his hand coming away damp.  Not punched then.  Stabbed.  Still, he could not see who had attacked him, the blow when it came caught him in the temple, and the world spiralled away.

 

He could hear voices talking, occasionally words made sense and he caught snippets of the conversation as it drifted around him.  He dreamt that Sam was there, but Sam was safe in California, do-gooding, raising his children and loving his wife. He let himself drift back into the soft floating oblivion.  “ _I’m sorry Benny, I know I promised, I’m sorry…”_

 

**Emily Dekkermeier.  She had a name, and now it was known.  Emily.**

**He rocked back in his chair, Benny clapping him hard on the shoulder.  Benny smiling.  “Well done, cher, well done.”**

**They knocked on the ramshackle door, this was the hard part.  Telling.  Watching the reaction.  Always hard to see someone lose hope.  No answer, stood side by side, shoulders touching.  Benny nudged him with his elbow.  “Promise me now, brother.  No more crusades.  It’s time to take better care of yourself.  I…”**

**The door was opening, there was no time to react, no time at all, and then he was flying and falling.  Benny’s arm raising and shoving him back, he was falling and falling. Landing hard on his lower back in the dirt in front of the squat wooden house, feet in the air, arms flailing, lifted by the shove clear over the porch steps and away from the danger.  The crack shattered the air, breaking birds into flight.  Dogs barked.  He scrambled to his feet, hands gaining as much purchase as boots, crawling and flailing across the dirt, through the spreading pool, clawing and clutching to stem the flow.**

**He heard the screaming, they tried to prise his hands from the jacket as he gripped it vice-like in clenched fingers and he fought them away, as the screaming got louder.  I promise, I promise, I promise.  Who was shouting?  Burning his throat, echoing in his ears, louder and louder…**

 

Gentle words were replacing the screaming as he eased back to the world away from his nightmare.  “Dean, you’re safe, Dean.  You’re in the hospital.”

He swallowed heavily, his whole body felt too heavy as if someone had replaced his bones with concrete.  He lifted a shaky hand and tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were even heavier than his arms.  They flickered, light forming bright hexagons at the edges of his vision as he blinked them open with real effort, and his brain began to sear at the sudden brightness.

Sam’s face swam into focus, looming up from the side of the bed, where he sat in a plastic chair.  He looked tired.  And puffy eyed.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but his voice would not come, his tongue stuck uncomfortably to his teeth.  Something soft and wet brushed against his lips and he sucked at it, supping precious fluid into his mouth, glancing sideways into eyes the blue of forget-me-nots.

“Sam?” he croaked, turning his head back towards his brother.

“I came in on the red-eye.  Crowley rang me, Castiel has been here with you since…”  his brother’s voice trailed off in distress.  “Jesus, that phone call… it was like Dad all over again…”

He locked his eyes onto his brothers’ face.  Reassuring him with a vague and clumsy wave of his fingers, that had started in his brain as a dismissive gesture with his whole arm. “Shut up, bitch,” his voice was painful.  “No chick-flicking.”

Sam checked himself, and gave his brother a reproving look, before responding.  “Jerk!”

Dean closed his eyes against the pain in his forehead.  He wasn’t entirely sure that there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t ache. He shifted awkwardly feeling the curious stretch and itch in his side, that he knew meant stitches.  What the hell had happened?

“Crowley is here,” Cas said lightly, into the silence.  “He believes your work avoidance strategy to be somewhat excessive.”

The laugh hurt, and did not reach outside his chest, sounding like a little huff of air, rather than a chuckle.  He winced and tried to lick his lips.  What he now realised was a sponge returned, running along the broken surface and dripping precious cool water into his mouth.  

“The nurse has said you must be careful not to drink too much too quickly,”  Cas answered his unspoken question.  It was as unnerving as ever, but it certainly made it easier in his weakened condition.  He tried in vain to shift himself into a more upright position, only to find Cas gently assisting him.  Sam stepped forward and they each took him under the arm and lifted him up onto freshly plumped pillows.

A nurse appeared, wheeling a trolley of monitoring equipment.  He noticed that although Sam was ushered from the room, Cas was not only allowed to stay, but she quietly asked him questions and addressed her gentle comments to him.  “...using the sponge, good, he can have water to drink now, but steady, no more than 200ml before breakfast tomorrow.”

She was efficient and businesslike, placing a blood pressure cuff about his arm and pressing the button to inflate it while she fussed about taking measurements and scribbling down notes, before turning her attention to finally address him directly.

“You’ve been very lucky, Mr Winchester, any longer before Mr Novak found you, and stemmed the bleeding and you would have been in a much sorrier state than you are now.”

Dean blinked under the tirade, not sure what he was being admonished for.  He looked over her shoulder and caught the familiar quick flash of amusement in dancing blue eyes before the normal inscrutable expression returned.  

Her hand was cool on his arm as she lifted it to remove the cuff.  Long slender fingers rested briefly on his hand as she said softly, “you’re still in pain.”  It was a statement and not a question.  She fiddled with the controls on his drip and he felt the pain in his body drift into something more manageable.  He could still feel it, but he cared less about it.

“He’ll be drowsy again, now,” she patted Cas’ arm and he gave her a shy smile.  

Dean watched as if from a distance, vaguely intrigued by their body language.  Why was everyone suddenly deferring to Cas?

A gentle hand cupped the back of his head and he slurped a little greedily at the proffered water bottle, sucking at the water gratefully.  “I’m afraid that in order to make sure they let me stay, I had to slightly exaggerate the depth and scope of our relationship to the medics.”  Cas confided in a low voice.  Dean decided to deceive himself that the brief shimmering shiver of pleasure he felt was just a reaction to the drugs, and had nothing to do with the feel of Cas’ warm breath on his ear.

The door was opening as Sam returned, Crowley appearing behind him.  He felt himself smiling weakly as the room drifted away in an opiate haze.

 


	14. Squeezebox (Part 1)

The day had stretched on quietly as he dozed, slowly returning to himself as the painkillers receded from his system. When the nurse woke him first thing he had refused anything potent, and although she looked vaguely disapproving, she nodded. “At least take these. Nothing you couldn’t get over the counter,” she added, when he eyed her suspiciously, adding with a nod towards the buzzer. “Call if you change your mind.”

Drifting back to the sound of the door clicking softly open, he felt the sun on his face. His eyes settled on the unappetising hospital breakfast which was still on the side table, along with the menu selection sheet he had half-heartedly ticked. However wonderful the NHS health care was, however professional and caring its staff, and Dean had to admit they were wonderful, the catering left a lot to be desired. In short, it was fucking terrible.

He rolled his head and watched Castiel enter the room, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a coffee flask gripped in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. He placed his cargo on the side table with a smirk as Dean’s stomach growled conspiratorially, before dropping his trenchcoat which had been draped over his arm onto one of the chairs. “Hungry then,” Cas observed drily.

“Freak.” He was rewarded with a grin.

He pulled open the bag and gave a tiny moan of disappointment. “You can’t have Philly cheese steak for breakfast, Dean, but I promise I didn’t skimp on the coffee.”

“You sound like Sam.” The bacon sandwich was actually good, even if it did sneakily contain lettuce and tomato. A smear of some weird sauce that was strangely sharp tasting, but not unpleasant, holding it all together. The coffee, as promised, was awesome.

“Your brother has your best interests at heart. I find he is…” Cas chose his words carefully, “...every bit as stubborn as his older brother. I do not envy Bobby his role as your referee.”

Dean swallowed his mouthful a little too early in his haste to speak. The lump of it hurt as it travelled down his gullet. “You’ve talked to Sam about Bobby?” He took a slug of coffee to ease the passage of the under chewed morsel.

“You were unconscious for three days. Once your brother arrived, we had little else to do, but talk. And Bobby was extremely forceful about the need to ring him every few hours with updates on your condition… they care about you, deeply. Sheriff Mills also had some fairly strong opinions to express.” Dean snickered. Cas’ lips twitched, but he continued undaunted. “In fact, they have all more or less implied that my continued existence was dependent on your welfare. So I’m afraid, like it or not, I have to stick around.”

“You can stay,” Dean flicked him an eye smile over the sandwich, fingers flexing into the softness of the bread, “on two conditions. Number 1, you accept and acknowledge that cheese steak sandwich is good for any meal. Number 2, you tell me the truth about why you‘re here.”

They were interrupted by a buzzing noise, from Castiel’s trenchcoat. He stared at the phone, which Cas passed wordlessly to him. It was his own, sighing he lifted it to his ear.

Castiel retrieved an amazingly heavy looking tome about the Napoleonic wars from the cupboard next to the bed and dropped into the chair with it falling open on his lap.

“Idjit.” Bobby’s voice was gruff down the phone line, and Dean’s cheek twitched into a half smile. He listened as Bobby rambled on, going through all the reasons it was inadvisable to let someone stab you. He lay back against his pillows, the healing stitches itching unbearably and he winced as he shifted awkwardly.

Castiel glanced up at him briefly, Dean raised his free hand to acknowledge that he was fine and with a quick flick of a smile, the dark head ducked back into the leaves of his book.

“The blade hit my rib Bobby, I was sliced not kebabed. And I’ve had far worse concussions.”

“Yeah, well, you may have had plenty of knocks to the head, but it ain’t bust any sense in there!” And Bobby continued on his new favourite subject, berating him for letting some lowlife get the jump on him. Eventually, he ran out of steam. They carried on catching up, talking about his former colleagues and Jody and inconsequential things until he finally said, “I gotta go, son, but you just make sure you take better care of yourself. Can your new friend hear me?”

Dean glanced across, but Cas was now deeply engrossed in the exploits of La Grande Armée. “Nope.”

“He rang me from your phone when he couldn’t get an answer from Sam. He saved your life, Dean, and for that I owe him…” Bobby’s voice was strangely brittle, he cleared his throat. “Goddammit, son, you know I don’t believe in psychic bull shit any more than you do, but...”

“It’s OK, Bobby, I get you.”

 

Crowley felt the absence of Dean Winchester like you suddenly notice the lack of noise in total silence. It just wasn’t the same without him, and the rest of the team were noticing too. Crowley was irritable, far more irritable than usual. The workload was huge, even with an expanded team they had many man-hours worth of data to process. His biggest fear that he would be foisted with some other superior had been mercifully unfounded, resources were stretched on the management team and the interference was just a closer eye cast by the senior prat, with a planning meeting each morning and a recap each evening. Crowley was, after years in the Met, more than adept at keeping the higher-ups well informed while telling them precisely nothing. He sat now, in the cubicle office, with a large pad on his lap, idly scribbling down the main points as he processed his thoughts.

 

Lettuce MacArthur had died of slow blood loss, exactly like Drew Nicholls. Her heart had been missing, exactly like Drew Nicholls. However, her arms were not marked with bruises, nor was her arm a pin cushion. A single point of entry, straight into the vein. Administered, in Jane Coleman’s not so humble opinion, by someone with some surgical or medical skill.

Prof MacArthur was under heavy sedation, not that he needed medical intervention to stare blankly at the ceiling. He was still catatonic. Lettuce had not been seen for over a week. Her father had discussed his concern when she failed to answer her phone with his secretary and left work to go to her bedsit and check on her. Between sobs, Miss Reid, a smart, if, unprepossessing woman, had told the detective everything she knew about the ‘independent and rebellious’ daughter of her employer.

'Rebellious' was somewhat at odds with Lettuce’s friends' description of her. In fact sweet, kind, rather serious, studious and sensible had featured prominently, leading Crowley to suspect that her father had been quite overprotective. Lettuce’s only act of ‘rebellion’ appeared to be her determination to make her own way in the world of music and not to gain too much advantage from her illustrious father, his reputation or his wealth, preferring to work to pay her way through university and live self-sufficient and alone in her bedsit during her studies.

She had stayed on in her bedsit even after completing her degree, odd-jobbing as composer and pianist working shifts as a barista to fund herself. She had been a clean living, straight A student, who although she had no significant other, was well-liked in her friendship circle and did not, as her best friend had expressed it, ‘put it about’. In short, apart from London location (hardly a rare connection) and the love of music, her lifestyle could not be much further removed from Drew Nicholl’s.

Miss Reid had, having removed her glasses and wiped her puffy eyes yet again, given Crowley the name of several of the Prof’s colleagues who might be able to help them with the ‘blood’ music, as Jo Harvelle had christened it.

The opinion of the three names he had consulted from the list was roughly unanimous. The first piece was, prior to embellishment, definitely incomplete. Someone with a relatively good ear and familiarity with composition had made the amendments and the finished piece, while competent, was uninspiring.

The second piece had no recognisable melodic theme, and was in the words of the Prof’s assistant ‘utter garbage’, although she did acknowledge a good beat. Crowley had been very careful to hide the origin of the pieces. getting one of the poor DC’s, who reluctantly confessed to having Grade 4 Piano, to transcribe the score using more conventional pen and music paper. Said poor DC, was currently suffering under the nickname of Stevie Wonder on the basis that he too, being a blind musician would have failed to spot the resemblance of the blood splatter to a music score. Ah, Crowley smiled to himself, police humour. Nonetheless, the music info was interesting, weird, fucked-up and thus far useless, but interesting.

The steady elimination of Drew Nicholls’ contacts had narrowed down to 10 unidentified numbers, a minor miracle in itself considering the sheer volume of them. The persons of interest pile held some 20 or so names. People who for one reason or another did not sit well with the investigation team and were deemed worthy of further investigation, or could not provide a reasonable alibi.

There was still no sign of Nicholls on the CCTV leaving the rehearsal space, the search was slow going, as the only other option was to look through footage of the wider environment, but having no idea of his departure time made it a gargantuan task.

The TOD for Lettuce had been narrowed down to an 8 hour period. Living in the area that she did the nearest CCTV was a busy shopping street, which had been added to the trawl.

In the opinion of the SOCO, the position of her death had been at the foot of the bed, facing the whitewashed wall. A pool of urine on the floor and an absence of blood droplets forming a macabre stencil on the lime bleached floorboards.

Jane Coleman had developed a theory, shared with them all at the morning case conference; the heart had been removed not as a trophy but as obfuscation. She and Steve had become quite animated in their opposing opinions. Crowley had stared at them both with a kind of detached disdain. At this stage, it did not further the case, but it was mildly amusing watching them amiably bickering.

There was a tap at the door. Crowley lifted his head from his notes. “Yes,” he snapped. Gavin recoiled slightly, and Crowley sighed impatiently. “What is it, Fitzgerald?”

“The ...erm… the lead from the CCTV, we finally got hold of Jenna Hughes. She’s coming in this morning and I thought you might want to take the interview.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, somewhat dramatically. “Minions,” he muttered under his breath and nodded. “Let me know when she gets here.”


	15. Squeezebox (Part 2)

The interview was fairly straightforward. Crowley let her ramble a little, as she insisted on relating everything that had happened pretty much since she gave the kids their breakfast. The nasal quality of her voice was grating on him, but she was earnest enough.

“It was Daisy saw her first. She’s a kind little fing, my mum always says she has a caring nature, dead set on being a nurse when she grows up.” Crowley forced himself to concentrate. “So she sees the lady tryna get the big buggy down the steps ‘n’ she goes ‘Mum, don’t you fink you oughta ‘elp,’ ‘n’ I goes ‘mebbe she don’ want my ‘elp, Poppet, cos I calls Daisy Poppet on account of her sweet nature…”

“So the buggy isn’t yours…” Crowley began. “Shit,” he thought.

“Nah, course not, my kids ‘r’ too old to need a buggy now, they grow so quick, dunt they. So we sees the lady with the buggy ‘n’ I realise she’s gonna struggle down them steps. They’re steep and lipped like. I used to forever get the buggy stuck when Daisy ‘n’ Mollie were still in ‘em, trying to get up ‘n’ down them big stone steps at the hospitals ‘n’ banks ‘n’ the like.”

“Do you remember which set of steps she was coming down?”

A line of little creases formed in the skin between her eyebrows as she thought back. “It were deffo somewhere in the miggle, prob’ly five or six sets down. The door was black, cos it looked like the one off the telly, ‘n’ there was a cat sitting on the bottom step, cos Mollie was fussin’ it...”

“Holy shit” Crowley thought to himself. “Our killer is probably a woman.” Female serial killers were a real rarity unless they were accomplices. And statistically, although it was on the increase, they favoured non-violent (if you could have any such thing) methods of murder like poison. He pulled himself back, “stop getting ahead of yourself,” he scolded.

“...’n’ she goes fanks, only her voice were really plummy, like that Joanna Lumley, real la-de-da sounding, it’s real heavy on my own, or summat like that.”

“On her own?”

“Yeah, she said her bruvver normally ‘elped, but he weren’t around, so she was moving stuff on her own.”

“Stuff?” Holy fucking shit.

She looked at him as if he was a simpleton. “The stuff in the buggy. It was proper heavy. S’no wonder she was strugglin’ with it.”

Holy motherfucking shit. Crowley kept his countenance flat, but he flicked a glance at Fitzgerald who looked like a gundog pointing a pheasant, he was practically quivering.

“So what happened then?” Crowley prompted.

“We walked down the street together to the corner, chatting like, ‘n’ then she goes, fanks again ‘n’ wen off frew the park.”

“What did you chat about?”

“Well mainly I was tellin’ her about the mornin’ ‘n’ I asked her if she’d watched Enders ‘n’ she goes, nah I don’t watch much telly, ‘n’…”

“Doubt she could have got a word in edgeways with a sledgehammer,” Crowley thought uncharitably, considering this woman was probably their best lead to date. Aloud he asked simply, “what did she look like? Can you describe her?”

“Dunno really,” the wrinkles were back. “She were wearing an ‘oodie, but I fink her hair was light coloured, sorta mousy. She ‘ad bright red lipstick on, ‘n’ glasses.”

“How tall was she?” They could estimate her height from the CCTV, but a witness guesstimate was always a good corroborator.

“Bit taller un me. But that ain’t difficult, I’m a bit of a titch. She weren’t wearing heels I don’t fink. S’hard to remember, it’s weeks ago now. Oooo, she had really nice nails, I asked her where she got ‘em done ‘n’ she said the name of a nail bar, said it were up town ‘n’ a ways to travel, but worf it. Blimey, I fought I’d remember. I was gonna give ‘em a go. Nah, mebbe it’ll come back to me.”

He let Garth take over at this point, fleshing out her statement into something more intelligible and getting her to sign it. It might be worth a stab at an Identikit image but Crowley already suspected it was too late in the day. Witness minds were fickle things, even the most visually acute and observant people missed vital details or suffered from distorted memories, and Jenna Hughes struck him as far from observant. He ‘fanked’ her absent-mindedly and began mulling over what the statement meant.

Sitting back in the office in one of the loose tub chairs with his feet on the desk, he found he missed Winchester even more, they would have bounced this back and forth, developing and dismissing theories before deciding on new lines of enquiry. Key was checking where she went with that buggy. Was this just a weird coincidence or had they really stumbled upon the killer leaving the flat, taking the tools of their trade with them in a baby’s pram of all things? It certainly made for a discrete and clever way to move stuff. “Oh bollocks,” he said quietly to the air in the room. They had their first real break.

 

Dean was getting vaguely annoyed with interruptions now. He wanted to talk to Cas. Alone. First the call from Bobby, then the orderly clearing away the remnants of curling toast and rubberised scrambled eggs. Offering them both tea with a cheeriness that only irritated Dean more, now that he no longer had coffee left in his flask.

The nurse had returned, followed shortly after by his doctor, a grumpy looking man who peered severely over his glasses, introducing himself as Mr. Campbell, his junior house as Dr. Milotra. He lectured Dean about getting stabbed with Dr. Milotra stood behind him trying hard not to look amused, these bollockings for being the victim were forming a familiar pattern, the nature and possible severity of the head injury he had suffered and the need to carry out a few further tests to ensure there was no permanent damage, including a further MRI. Apparently, he had undergone the first prior to the surgery on his side to repair the wound caused by the knife, which although it had been deflected by his rib, had still caused substantial tissue damage. So much for his sliced not kebabed theory.

Castiel had left shortly after the nurse arrived and did not return until just before lunchtime, accompanied by Sam, but carrying the obligatory little brown bag, and blissfully, a flask. He deposited both in front of Dean, who seized on them with real zeal. “Don’t take that as proof he’s recovering,” Sam informed Cas with more than a hint of sarcasm, “the only things that slow my brother's appetite are a coma and health food.”

“Bite me,” Dean growled, through a mouthful of cheesesteak.

Cas blinked at them both, before giving one of his knowing little smiles. “What?” Dean asked. “You can’t pull the Mr Omnipresent smile and not ‘fess up. What?”

“You two,” he smiled more widely, “covering your love with squabbles and affectionate meanness. It’s kind of endearing as if you never developed your relationship past your teens.”

Sam looked momentarily shocked, then broke the tension with a deep belly laugh. “Dude, he so has the measure of you.” He patted a puzzled Cas on the arm and said quietly. “Dean doesn’t do feelings, Cas. You’ll find it easier if you just drop down to his pubescent level of articulation.”

“Hey,” Dean protested, “in the room and listening!”

“Drink your coffee,” Cas said softly, “the grown-ups are talking.”

Dean blinked and spluttered, while Sam simply nodded his head and gave Cas a thumbs up. The blush and look of amused pleasure was the most appealing thing Dean had seen all day, apart from the cheesesteak and the coffee, of course. He pushed his disquiet to the back of his mind and soaked up the convivial atmosphere. His brother genuinely seemed to like Cas, and he was more pleased than he would ever have thought possible.

It was at this point Charlie arrived, carrying a laptop bag and a bunch of grapes. She cannoned into the room like an Irish Red Setter, throwing her arms around a surprised Castiel and dragging him into a hug. He stood slightly shell-shocked rubbing the lipstick from his cheek, as she embraced Sam and then more or less threw herself at Dean, spitting questions and comments at him with her usual quick-fire delivery. He hugged her back, wincing at the pull on his stitches, letting her fuss over him in good-natured sufferance.

“I take it this is the first time you’ve been Charlied?” he heard Sam say to Cas, who still looked more than a little bemused.

She sat back and stared from one to the other, before retrieving the laptop bag with a gleeful little smirk. “Crowley said, I was on no account to bring you your laptop, that I absolutely should not load it up with all the latest files, and I should definitely not point you in the direction of Jenna Hughes’ statement. So I, of course, have carefully not followed his instructions to the letter. He says he’ll be over tonight to brief you as soon as he escapes the DCC. I think he misses you. He’s grumpy as hell.”

 

_The needle tip slipped easily into his vein. It was regrettable to have to revert to syringes again, after the success of the cannula, but this dark alley was still the open street and the risk of discovery was high. She pushed the strands of hair back from his face and looked again at the slowly building swelling. It would be a nasty bruise, but there had been no other option. He had never liked her much, so he would never have agreed to a drink. The feeling was mutual. He was an arsehole. She was quite proud of herself for thinking of him. She had finally accepted that Marley was right, they needed to suffer. At least picking someone like him, she wouldn’t feel so bad about it and it was better than the alternative that Marley had come up with. She shuddered at the thought of it, glad that Marley had failed, where she was going to succeed._

_He was heavy, considering how short he was, but she was fairly confident she could lift him into the wheelchair. She checked him quickly and dragged him into the dark shadow of the building, lying him up against the wall so that if by chance someone did see him, they would assume he was just another homeless guy or maybe a drunk or a druggie, more or less invisible to the average Londoner as they carried on their more fortunate lives. She kicked his accordion in the dark and jumped as it fell open with a groan._

_The wheelchair straps were hard to unclip from the van and she sucked miserably at the broken nail tasting her own coppery blood. Cursing under her breath she felt in her pockets and grabbed a pair of rubber gloves. The chair wheels snagged slightly on the gaps between the smooth old flagstones as she pushed it across the wide pavement of Bow Street. The hubbub from the bars and restaurants on the corner was muted by the steady drizzle that had started to fall. She was thankful for it, as it made people rush to get off the streets._

_For a moment she thought he had moved, but as her eyesight adjusted back to the darkness of the narrow court she saw the lumpy outline of his prone body. As she reached him she smelt the sour tang and fumbling for her phone she flicked it to activate the torch function. His mouth and lower face were covered in vomit. No. No. No. Marley would be furious._

_She grabbed his chin and turned his head, scooping the lumpy goop from his open mouth to clear his airway. Dammit. The panic was rising, she felt her glove snag on his teeth, her finger was still stinging sharply where she had exposed the raw flesh but she carried on dragging at the noxious mess. She watched his chest and listened, but there was no whistling drag of air, or motion to indicate his lungs were filling. She wondered briefly about CPR, but the kit was in the van. She had no barrier device to drop over his face. How long had it taken her to get the chair?_

_She felt for a pulse, pressing her fingers into his neck. There was nothing. Cursing her own carelessness at not at least leaving him on his side, she pulled his sleeves down and refastened his shirt cuff. Maybe, it would just be assumed he had fallen while drunk or been robbed. A mugging gone wrong, but she had tried to clear the vomit, it would be obvious. She thought hurriedly. There were still phone boxes in Covent Garden. If she called an ambulance, pretended to be a passerby, the attempts to help might, just might … She looked down at Robert Manners body dispassionately. Trust this arsehole to make things difficult. She grabbed the money bag containing the proceeds of his busking and threw it into the chair, it split and some of the coins fell to the ground. Good. It would look more realistic that way._

_She took a deep steadying breath and pushed the chair back towards the street, calm now she had a plan._


	16. Squeezebox (Part 3)

Dr. Hiran Milotra was alone for the morning rounds, scanning carefully through Dean’s notes he did not look old enough to be making choices about his A-level options, let alone clinical decisions about a patient.  He smiled reassuringly at Sam and Cas, as he scrolled through his tablet.

“Well, Mr Winchester, the MRI we took last night is clear, you have sustained no permanent damage from the blow to your head, so provided you make sure you check in with your GP to have those stitches monitored, I see no reason not to allow you to discharge yourself…” Dean began to shift himself and the young man’s smile twisted, “tomorrow though, eh.  One more night in Hotel Barts, just to be on the safe side.”

“Is there no way I can get out of here today, Dr. Milotra?”  He tried his most winning smile, and then looked pleadingly first at Sam, who was rolling his eyes at the blatant and clumsy attempt to charm the doctor and then Cas.

Cas looked thoughtful and then interjected.  “I believe if you check with the nursing staff they will affirm that I am more than capable of ensuring all the routine checks are carried out and to redress his wounds.”  Sam’s face, which had twisted into a wicked little smile, snapped back to bright-eyed innocence as the doctor turned towards him. Cas continued earnestly, “his brother and I can ensure his convalescence continues safely.  He can stay with us… at my house.  There is plenty of room.”

Hot damn, Sam was staying with Cas.  Dean stared at his brother in surprise.  Sam shrugged his broad shoulders and pulled a “what?” face.

“If,”  Dr. Milotra said, with a look of complicity, “you are determined to discharge yourself.  There is nothing I can do to stop you, but I would urge you to be careful and not push yourself too hard.”  He winked at Dean.  “Give the nursing staff an hour or so to put together a care kit, and I’ll write up the scripts for your meds.”

Sam shook his head, as the young doc removed himself from the room.  “You are so whipped,”  he dropped a heavy hand onto Cas’ shoulder, then catching the ‘I may just kill you’ glare from Dean, he pursed his lips, face flushing. “I’ll go see if I can book us a taxi,” he stumbled over his words, adding hurriedly “and rustle up some … erm … coffee or something...from a deli… a good long walk away...I’ll see you in...yeah...coffee would be good.”

Cas watched him go.  “Your brother is surprisingly awkward sometimes,”  he observed softly, “considering his chosen profession.”

Dean chuckled.  “You certainly have a way of pinning things down, Cas.  Considering you think yourself so socially inept and all.”

The lids of Cas’ eyes closed slowly, his lashes swept softly down when they slid open again, his focus had moved to Dean who squirmed under the intense cobalt blue reproof, moistening his lips and swallowed convulsively.  Noticing the tiniest downward flick in Cas’ eyes as he followed the movement.

For a moment which seemed to stretch, they stared at each other, until Dean cleared his throat, “so, condition 2?”  Cas sighed but did not speak, and gave Dean a vaguely mutinous look.  “OK, so let’s work backwards. Everyone is busy telling me you saved my life, but I got no detail.  How were you even there?”

This time it was Cas who swallowed nervously, his eyes dropping to the floor.  “Cas?  It’s time for more ‘fess up.  How in the hell did you know where to find me?”

He raised his gaze.  “I followed you.”  He moved a little closer towards the bed and Dean hitched himself up from his pillows, leaning forward, eyebrows raised.  “I was worried, I knew something might happen and I was right,” his tone was unapologetic.

“So,”  Dean said carefully, how could he have missed a dude in a trenchcoat?  Especially this dude.  Man, Bobby was right, he deserved to get stabbed, for crimes against observation. “You followed me from where exactly?”

“From the wine bar.”  His cheeks were flushed and he was clearly uncomfortable, but this time he held Dean’s stare.

“And how did you know I was in the wine bar…”  So Cas had seen him with Jen O’Brien.  

The vaguely contrite look was reforming into something more exasperated.  “I followed you.  All the way from your work to your flat.  From your flat to the wine bar and then I waited outside, for you to come out and then… then, I lost you briefly...,”  he swallowed again and began fiddling with the blanket on the bed, his fingers inches from Dean’s hand.

That look again, the sweep and movement of his eyes under the hood of his eyelids.  A little smile twitched his lips as they both heard Dean’s breath catch in reaction.  Dean narrowed his eyes, and the smile grew. Dean let his hand slide slightly closer, their fingertips almost brushing.  “So you ran around Soho until you found me again?”

“Leading the witness, Detective Winchester?”  He stopped playing with the blankets, his eyebrows arching in challenge, he started to trace the outline of Dean’s thumb with one delicate finger. “I followed my instincts, and then I heard a noise and I saw two figures in the darkness, saw one attack the other and I _knew_ it was you, by the time I’d run down the alley it was all over, I was too late… if I hadn’t been so careless, I might have prevented…this.”

“Or you might have been stabbed instead…”

“Dean,” Cas said with mild disparagement, leaning closer and placing his hands side by side by Dean’s hip for balance, causing the bed to dip. “I’ve spent the last decade and a half living out of my car, staying in fleapit motels, in every kind of two-bit town and city, meeting every kind of low life imaginable. Do you honestly think I don’t know how to defend myself?”

“Still…you might,”  Dean said, mesmerised by the way the smoothness of Cas’ cheek contrasted with the stubble on his face and the rough candy pink lips. Taking advantage of the dip in the bed, he leant still closer himself.

“I am not the one in a hospital bed, trying… and failing… not to scratch at his stitches,”  his breath was warm on Dean’s face.

Dean shrugged his shoulders slightly, letting his head tilt.  “Fair comment, I guess. Still haven’t explained the stalking.”

Cas made an impatient little noise in his throat. It did strange things to Dean. “I was following you, not…”

“Hm?  OK Potato Patato, but…why were you following me?” Smooth Winchester, he chided himself.  Potato, patato? Where the fuck did that come from?

“When I told you I dreamt about a man in trouble.  I didn’t lie.”  His words were tumbling out of him, it was uncharacteristic. Cas’ normally measured control and slow deliberate delivery replaced with a nervous outpouring, his face flushing. “There was _someone_ I knew I had to try and save...You assumed I meant Drew Nicholls and I didn’t correct you, but it wasn’t a lie, I did try to help him.  It’s just he wasn’t the reason I came here, he was a by-product...” Dean held his breath, so this was the big secret, the thing he hadn’t felt able to say, and now he could guess why.  “...it was you, Dean… for months now...over and over I’ve dreamt about you.  Watched you die...it was _you_ I knew I had to come to save…”  Cas’ head dropped.  They were so close now that the unruly dark brown hair tickled his nose.  All the playfulness was gone from Cas’ voice, “...I’m so sorry Dean, I nearly blew it, I thought...when I saw you drop...I thought…”

“I’m still here.”  He wanted so much to kiss the top of the dark head, anything to stop the trembling he could feel through the bedclothes.  “You did save me, Cas, even after I was a bastard to you, you still saved me, maybe if you’d told me… from the start I mean.”  Cas looked up ‘Yeah, right!’, writ large on his face. “Ok, you’re right.  You couldn’t, I wouldn’t have listened, but this.  None of this is your fault, none of it.”  They were so close now, if he just leaned in a little tiny bit more, he could test those lips, see if they were as sweet and soft as they looked.  “And at least, I know… I’m literally the man of your dreams.”  Now, that was classic Winchester cheese, he congratulated himself.  

Cas gave him that reproving look again, and something twisted deep in his gut. If Cas didn’t stop doing that he was going to melt into a puddle, the man was adorable.  He let the strain in his eyes from keeping focused at such close proximity force his lids closed, his other senses taking over, the warmth radiating from Cas’ skin, his breath running across his face, the scent of soap and fresh air that Cas seemed to carry wherever he went. All Dean could hear was the two of them breathing and his own heartbeat.  Everything else seemed to have receded away.

The downward pressure on the bed shifted and he tilted into the contact, lips parting slightly in anticipation. Tantalisingly close, as if mere molecules were separating them, the click of the door opening was impossibly loud. The weight lifted from the bed beside him as Cas jumped upright.

Dean almost groaned in disappointment, he looked up, expecting to see Sam, the joke about the Sasquatch being a superb and effective cockblocker freezing in his throat as he stared straight into the deep brown eyes of Jen O’Brien.  Her expression moving swiftly from a welcoming smile to shock to distress.  “S-sorry.  I didn’t…”

“Jen,” his voice squeaked a little.  “I’m… have you met…”

She stood holding a wrapped gift.  Cas was staring at her, eyes wide, frozen by the bedside.  “I just came to see how you were, I … I didn’t mean to intrude.”  She dropped the gift onto the bed and turned so abruptly she cannoned into the nurse who was following her into the room.  She muttered yet more apologies and practically ran down the corridor.

“Crap,”  Dean said, quietly.  

  
  
Jane Coleman was a dedicated and hard-working woman, who when in work, focused on her work, and she expected no less from her staff.  Today, she was worried.  

They had so much on.  Important stuff.  The general background work was still there.  London had plenty of crime and that meant plenty of police and that meant plenty of demand for forensics and unfortunately at the rate of several hundred a day the city and surroundings provided a steady supply of corpses.  Every suspicious death needed an autopsy, not just the criminal cases and her department dealt with them all in the various morgues around the city.  She glanced up at the overloaded whiteboard, initials in multiple hands scribbled up against each job, deadlines and estimated finish times which roughly correlated.

They were always short-staffed in Forensics, she didn’t have enough morgue attendants, Steve didn’t have enough SOCOs and neither of them had enough ancillary lab staff.  And now she had to worry about Jen.  She liked the girl, ‘woman’ she corrected herself.  She was steadfast and cheerful, always willing to do extra.  A little lonely maybe, with no family to support her.  But a year into her post,  she got on well with everyone and worked hard, and Jane had quite a soft spot for her.  With her dark auburn hair neatly clipped up for work, one long, stray strand tucked haphazardly behind her ear, big almond shaped brown eyes and habit of singing as she worked, she reminded Jane of the first girl she had ever kissed at school.  Not that she thought of Jen that way, the age gap was too much for one thing and Jane Coleman had long since settled for the cliché of cats and a quiet life for another.

Jen had been a little quiet and preoccupied since her ‘date’ with Winchester, and Jane found herself missing the gentle lilting songs and ready smile.  It that was not so surprising, Jane herself had been truly upset to hear about the incident in Covent Garden.  He was a nice guy, but Crowley had assured her he was recovering well.

So yesterday, after observing O’Brien wandering around like a lost soul, she’d let compassion get the better of her.  “Jen,”  she had said, keeping her voice casual and light. “There’s a body needs collecting from Barts.  It’s visiting time from half-two. Why don’t you go down with the body van and take a late lunch? I can spare you for an early finish just this once,” an out and out lie, they had both known, “go check on him yourself.”

Today she was regretting it.  If anything O’Brien seemed even more subdued.  Things had obviously not gone well.  Her brief enquiry into his well-being dismissed with a simple, “he seemed fine to me.”  Still, Jen was here and she was carrying out her work efficiently enough, so Jane let her be.

The body from Barts was a routine suspicious death,  a suspected mugging gone wrong, but it needed processing and cataloguing, they were even more overloaded at Barts than Jane’s team were and it didn’t do to leave it too long, so the body was transferring here.  If there was a family or friends they would want some ‘closure’.  God, she hated that contrite phrase, it sounded so clean, as if it solved everything. She sighed and shook herself out of the maudlin train of thought. Work.There was plenty of it to provide distraction.

She flicked an eye over the case notes, to decide where to allocate the job.  Ambulance call. Failed attempt at CPR by a passerby. Presumed to have choked on his own vomit after a blow to the head. Wonderful.  Glancing at the board, and noting a little guiltily that her own initials were a little more sparse, she decided on a whim to do the autopsy herself.  The case conference with Crowley and Steve Groves wasn’t until 3 pm.  She had plenty of time to work through a straightforward autopsy and it would stop her brooding over her assistant if nothing else.

 

 

“What the hell are you doing in a suit, Dean?”  Cas was in the kitchen making breakfast when he heard the commotion in the hallway.  He listened with mild amusement.  Did they ever stop bickering?  Not that he didn’t have some sympathy with Sam.  Even on short acquaintance, Dean ranged from mildly irritating to downright infuriating.

“I got dressed, Sam.  It’s what people do when they get out of bed.”

“In a suit?  You cannot go back to work.  You heard what the doctor said.”

“Aw quit it, Nanny McPhee.  And you can lose the bitchface.  I’m fine and I have a case to solve.”

“You’re insufferable.”  Cas had to agree with that one.  He dusted his hands and deftly flicked pancakes onto a plate from the pan as the two Winchester brothers pushed through the heavy door and appeared blinking into the bright welcome of the kitchen.

  


“You look like a hedgehog that didn’t quite make it across the road.”

“OK, that one is just too obscure.”

“You look like roadkill,”  Crowley stated flatly.

Dean moved carefully in the tub chair.  The stairs had been a little more challenging than he anticipated, and his ribs ached, but it was nothing he couldn’t deal with.  He’d left Sam and Cas just after lunch.  The argument such as it was, was over by the end of breakfast.  A stubborn streak a mile wide meant he was going to work and there was precious little Sam or anyone else could do to stop him.  Or so he thought. What he hadn’t quite reckoned with was the look on Cas’ face.  Or his ability to use a combination of reasoned argument, an arched eyebrow and coffee.

“Dean. You have the case files on your computer.  Crowley briefed you last night.  You can sit here quietly working, and go into the station for the afternoon,”  he looked at Dean expectantly, coffee grounds in one hand, the blue enamel coffee pot in the other. Dean suddenly realised the enamel was the same brilliant blue as Cas’ eyes.  Sap.  He pursed his lip about to argue when one dark eyebrow raised and those same very blue eyes bored into him and he felt himself nodding acceptance.  

“A shorter day will be less tiring,” Cas informed Sam, whose lips were twitching as he resisted the urge to laugh.  “Dean can rest all weekend.”  He looked from one to the other with a business like little smile.  “Good, then we’re agreed.”  And that as they say, was that.  Dean and Sam sat quietly either side of the kitchen table, one working through the case files, the other his e-mails, while Cas kept them both supplied with coffee and occasionally commented on what Dean was reading through.  By the time lunch had come and gone, Dean didn’t actually want to go to the station, but he’d made such a huge play of it, he wasn’t going to back down.

So here he was, wincing occasionally, but back in the office.  “The DCC is on a course about Modern Policing and Managing Successful Use of Social Media in the 21st Century, and cannot make the case conference this afternoon”  Crowley informed him with undisguised glee. “Praise be to the miracle of corporate training.”

Dean groaned as he laughed.   “What time are Groves and Coleman coming in?”

“Around ten minutes, if you think you’ll live that long.”

“Eat me.”

“You’re mistaking me for your other partner in crime,”  Crowley chuckled as Dean glared at him.

  
  


“It’s one hell of a catch, Jane.  How on earth did you spot it?”  Groves was truly impressed.

“You agree then?  It’s a possible link?”  

“I’d say it’s one hell of a coincidence if it’s not.”

“It’s a pure fluke. Barts is overflowing, and Molly Hooper asked me as a favour to take a couple of ‘suspicious’ off her hands.  This was the first.  I couldn’t believe it when I saw the results of the tox screen.  It’s the same anaesthetic as Drew and Lettuce, this poor bugger was allergic, dead within 10 minutes.”

“That’s not the best bit though.”  Crowley looked at her questioningly, it was funny, he had never seen her so excited.  Absolutely no trace of her normally placid, professional demeanour.  “If it was the killer who tried to clear his airway, we hit the mother load.  There was a fingernail snagged in the mouth, complete with flesh and blood.  We got ourselves a potential DNA sample.”


	17. Squeezebox (Part 4)

Dean stared at Crowley’s notepad.  Lost in his thoughts, prompted by his colleagues' jottings.  Crowley has surprisingly neat, slightly arcane looking handwriting.  It’s like he learnt to write with a quill.  Dean snickered to himself, briefly.

Music on the wall.  Their victims were all musicians. Could it just be a strange coincidence that someone has been killed with this specific anaesthetic?  It’s a rarity, Dean reads it again, Etomidate. Jane Coleman had been fairly adamant. It’s not a regularly obtained street drug.  She thinks someone must have access to a pharmacy or medical centre or maybe something similar.  It’s so rare, the cases must be connected.

Their new victim was from Lancashire originally.  Held all the correct licences. Worked the Garden on a daily basis. Well known in the area.  He had no links whatsoever to the orchestra. Did not move in the same classical music circles.  How do you leap from orchestra to street musician? 

Their next move is clear, set the team to hunting for other possible links to the first two victims.  Maybe their killer does just go after musicians.  Maybe the connections between the first two victims is the coincidence.  Dean doesn’t really believe in coincidences. 

Maybe the busker was an impulse thing.  Just picked up off the street, because he happened to be there.  The first two victims were killed in their own homes.  No way that would work for Bobby Manners, he lived in a shared house.  OK, he had no family to speak of, no significant other, few friends, in fact, a bit of a loner and he lived quietly and simply, but there was no opportune place to take him, no place where they wouldn’t be disturbed.  His death being so quick was accidental.  If you want to kill someone quickly, you don’t inject them with anaesthetic in the hope they’ll be allergic.  This killer has a purpose for their victims, something they want to achieve, so where had the killer planned to go.

It had to be planned, carefully planned, surely.  The last footage of Manners on Bath Street shows him walking past a bar.  The bar on the corner just down from the alley where he was found. Conveniently disappearing into a CCTV blackspot.  Those are far from common in London.  Especially central London, near a tourist hotspot.  Come to think of it, there’s no footage of Drew Nicholls leaving the orchestra rehearsal rooms.  The street outside Lettuce’s block is so busy to render the footage almost useless unless you know exactly when and who you are looking for.  Another coincidence?  Gaping holes in the CCTV evidence in all three cases.

Either this killer is extremely lucky… or extremely canny.  Luck and coincidence.  No.  Knowledge and careful planning.  This fucker is clever and thorough, not just lucky. Although Crowley is convinced their killer is a woman… Dean is not so sure. The woman in Drew’s street could be a man. Tall enough, figure gamine enough. He flicks back through the papers… Jenna Hughes words.  A brother. Two of them. Murder siblings? 

His head span, nauseated and with a heavy sigh, Dean came back to the real world from his thoughts.

He stared at the list again; Drew Nichols, violinist with the orchestra; Lettuce MacArthur, pianist/composer; Bobby Manners, busker.  Something was nagging at the back of his mind, the list was familiar.  He stared at it, feeling the frustration of an idea, an elusive, almost coherent thought, that just wouldn’t stay pinned.  He narrowed his eyes, squinting as if the answer would swim into focus like a magic eye image.

“Penny for them,”  Crowley said, softly, then as Dean turned towards him, his face took on a touch of concern.  “You look tired.”

Dean huffed angrily, “I don’t need another damned nursemaid.  I have two already.”  Crowley actually looked offended.  “Sorry,”  Dean mumbled, dragging a hand over his face, and wincing at the pull in his stitches as he had forgotten what he was doing and automatically used his right arm.  “I feel… it’s just… I wanna stop this creep.”

Crowley took his notepad gently out of Dean’s hands.  “Another hour. Then I’m driving you home.”

“I’m… I’m not…that is I’m staying...”  He could feel his cheeks beginning to redden.

“Oh, I know where you’re staying,”  Crowley smirked, laughing at the blushing detective.  “Home is where the  _ heart _ is… believe me I’ll leave the game of doctors and nurses to your angel of mercy.  I bet he looks cute in blue check, it must match his eyes.”

Dean felt the heat in his ears and knew the colour had spread through his face and neck.  He cleared his throat awkwardly and giving Crowley a look that would make a lesser man cower behind the desk, he grabbed back the notepad.  “There is something in the back of my mind, and I just can’t quite… It’s infuriating.”

“If,”  Crowley said calmly, “and it is still an ‘if’.  If this is connected, we have three cases, we have a serial killer.  We literally have triangulation, and this was a cock-up.  This was a mistake.  That is gonna put our killer on edge and might just shake something loose.  Force another mistake.  And if Jane is right about the DNA, we might even get a match off the National Database.  I’d say things are finally swinging our way.  Now let’s plot our course and focus on work.  If there is something floating around in that intuitively wired noggin of yours, it will come, like it always seems to, but not when you are straining for it.  You think better when you aren’t knackered, and whether you want to admit it or not.  You… are… cream crackered.”

Dean sighed at the rhyming slang.  “I swear you make half of those idiot expressions up as you go along,” he said grudgingly.  Crowley was right, he knew he was right, he was exhausted, but that didn’t have to mean he was happy to be called on it.  He nodded and relinquished the pad back to Crowley who pulled up a fresh sheet and drew out a grid, ready to create the framework for the next steps in the investigation, including a shift rota to drag the team back in over the weekend.  

“We need Jo Harvelle looking at the CCTV,”  Crowley said, underlining her name, “she’s got a phenomenal eye for detail, and a bloody good memory.”  Dean nodded approvingly, as Crowley concluded, “if anyone can see what we’ve missed it will be her.”

Crowley worked on in silence, slotting names and tasks together efficiently and quickly, matching skills and personalities to form strong mini-teams and allocating them assignments with considerable flair.  Dean, as ever, impressed by his colleague’s grasp on their team.  He perused the list and chuckled in spite of himself at his own carefully highlighted absence for the next two days.  “I solemnly swear,” Crowley promised, “that I will visit you at least twice a day for the next two days and update you, but you  _ need _ to rest.”

Steadfastly ignoring his comments, Dean asked,  “how far have we got with Nicholls movements the evening before?  Did the phone records turn up anything of interest?”

“There’s no sign of the phone, which suggests the killer may have taken it.  The mobile company say it stopped connecting with the network around 9 that evening, there aren’t many text messages or calls on it, so we think he was using a dating app over the data, which apparently is harder to unravel.  The flame-haired wonder is doing something insanely clever with chips and bytes and has promised some kind of miracle early next week.  She’s still complaining that we stymie her by making her comply with PACE and the Data Protection Act.”  Crowley chuckled.  “I sometimes think she would be happier wearing a Guy Fawkes mask…”

Dean, who had long since suspected that Charlie used ‘alternative’ methods at times, kept his face a study of innocence.  He shifted in his seat, the fatigue building as an ache in his bones and his head beginning to swim a little.

“There really is nothing more to be achieved from sitting here tonight.”  Crowley reached over and flicked off the desk light.  “Come on.  Move it, Winchester, before I get your mooselike brother to come and carry you, damsel style…”

  
  


Crowley guided the Honda to the kerb on the north of the square, with insouciant disregard for the double yellows.  He had jumped lightly from the car driver’s seat and was opening the passenger door before Dean had even managed to release his seat belt.  The glowering look he received as a reward made him chuckle again.  “I’m glad I’m such an amusement to you,”  Dean grumbled irritably, his agitation rising further when he saw that the front door of the house was open already and his brother was halfway down the steps.  Sammy, seeing the tension in his brother’s jaw glanced at Crowley, who winked, making the younger Winchester grin, even as Dean batted him away.

“He’s a grumpy little bean,”  Crowley called to Sam, laughing and blowing Dean a flamboyant kiss as he turned to glare at him.  “See you tomorrow, darling.”

“Tomorrow?”  Sam spluttered.  “You better not be thinking about…”

“Relax, Sammy.  He’s coming here to brief me.  I’ve promised to be a good boy, now can I please just go inside before I end up on my ass on the steps.”


End file.
